


Breaking Dawn

by notFieryPen37 (orphan_account)



Series: Sands of Time Trilogy [2]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 73,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3211988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/notFieryPen37
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, this is part 2 of the Sands of Time trilogy, which I am posting on behalf of the original author and with permission, who wishes to have no more to do with this work (is she crazy?  It's brilliant!).  If you haven't read the first part, "sand of Time" please do so.  I doubt this work stands on it's own, although as I type this I haven't read it yet; I'm only guessing, but it seems as if the story runs straight on from part 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homecoming

The roar of rain pounding against the domed roof kept him from sleep. His eyes traced the cracks in the plaster above him absently. If his world had been different, his mother would never have countenanced cracks in the ceiling . . . Growling in frustration, he leapt to his feet in one clean, lithe movement. Searing blue eyes glared out of a small, round window, ambient light illuminating sharp angles of his scowling face. The forest surrounding his home to human eyes would be nothing but a green smudge through dancing sheets of rain, but his eyes were many times keener. Lightning splintered the sky in arching white fingers, burning the image of a female form into his brain.

 

He froze.

 

It had been a morning much like this one when he’d woken after the beating of his life to find Mom disappeared across time. Three years.

He had long resigned himself to the fact that she was dead and he was alone. It was a sobering thought, eased only by his tireless training and his friendship with Videl. The Calm, as his people called it, the androids’ absence, had lasted abnormally long—a full year of peace. By the time of their resurgence, Trunks had firmly taken command of the Capsule Corp refugees. For two more years, he encountered 17 and 18 only twice, accruing no serious injuries. Despite his efforts to track them, they remained elusive, and Trunks filled the empty hours with training and study.  

 

Now it felt as if the ground was crumbling beneath him. For he had seen a woman in the rain.

 

And he could have sworn she had a tail.

 

Then in the next instant, she had disappeared into the trees, without as much as a quivering branch to announce her passing. Hope rose like a phoenix in his heart, bright and strong from ashes of gray apathy. Well, since he wasn’t sleeping anyway, he thought, he might as well check it out.  What could it hurt?

 

Trunks yanked his loose black pants over his boxers and snapped his belt. Forgoing shirt and shoes for the sake of speed, he swung his sword across his back and stepped onto the balcony. He grimaced as cold droplets pattered on his head and shoulders, plastering his long lavender hair to his skull and running in chilly rivulets down the ridged muscles of his arms and torso. Irritably, he tied his hair back.

 

Trunks swung over the rail and sailed down to the ground. Cold mud squelched between his toes and his eyes darted from side to side in habitual caution, his hand never far the hilt of his sword. Seeing no one, he ran into the waiting embrace of the forest, his sword tapping a soft tattoo against his back. He kept his senses open for the slightest variance, feeling more and more foolish as he crept through the cool, dark forest. Heavy drops of rain collected on the branches above and plunked hard on his head and shoulders, the wind and thunder creaking through the thick screen of trees. He stretched out his consciousness in all directions, searching for the flare of light announcing a sentient presence. Hers blazed like a sun in the darkness.

 

Blue eyes raked the trees above him, pinpointing a slender silhouette in the upper boughs. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Hey! You up there! Come on down, I won’t hurt you!” With a blur of movement only Trunks’ Saiyan eyes could follow, he watched her leap, execute two graceful flips and land lightly in the puddle of mud in front of him.

 

They stood in silence, studying each other for several minutes. He took in the spiky black hair falling messily on her brow and down her shoulders, the sleek muscles standing out clearly under her soaked clothing, the angled sharpness of her features, softened only by large, dark eyes and full lips. She was dressed casually, in dark jeans and a red tank top, but it did not disguise the fact that she was obviously alien.

The tail was a dead give away.

Almost shyly, she reached up and flicked a piece of hair from her forehead and Trunks saw a dark smudge on the underside of her wrist. A tattoo?

 

“You’re . . . you’re like me,” Trunks blurted dumbly, gesturing to her tail. That was all he could think to say. He was lost in the dark, dangerous beauty of her black eyes. Wild joy seethed in his veins and he was rapidly losing control of the stoic reserve that had been his shield for the past three years. The floodgate of emotion creaked, and trickles of fear, wonder and ever-present caution bubbled within him. 

 

“Yes,” her voice sent a warm shiver through him, hoarse and rich, like woodsmoke. She bowed, her right wrist over her heart. When she rose, she said, “You must be Prince Trunks.”

 

He blinked at the title. He thought of the red crest on his father’s armor, the totem he always carried in his pocket. _Well yes,_ he thought to himself. _I am my father’s son. I am a prince._ Such irrelevant musings were pushed aside with a tidal wave of questions. What in the name of all the gods was a Saiyan woman doing here? He opened his mouth to ask when she held up a hand.

 

“With all due respect, my prince, I am not the best person to answer your questions.”

 

Trunks frowned a little sulkily. He had a burning desire to learn more about this Saiyan who had fallen out of the sky.

 

“Who can answer them, then?” he snapped.

 

“Your mother,” said the Saiyan. The words cut through his distraction like a sword through bamboo. He flinched.

 

“My . . .” his voice dropped to a throaty whisper, “my mother?”

 

For an instant, in her mysterious dark eyes, Trunks saw a moment of unutterable compassion. It faded, replaced with a lively intelligence and something smoldering that he couldn’t define.

 

“Yes,” she said gently, “she didn’t want to ‘send you into cardiac arrest,’ as she put it, so she sent me ahead. Come, she is with the machine.”

 

With no further ado, she rose several feet in the air, looking down at him expectantly. In a strange trance, Trunks followed. Was he dreaming? Surely his mom hadn’t returned, bringing with her a Saiyan woman? If she had, where in Kami’s name had she been these past three years? They flew towards the edge to what used to be West City, and as always, Trunks forced himself to look down at the ruins, seeking the slightest twitch of movement that might betray the androids or a wayward refugee needing assistance. Tonight, it was still.

 

“I’ll catch you up on a few points: one, I am a Saiyan from a time where Frieza did not destroy our home planet and Kakkarot—who you know as Goku—was never sent on a purging mission here. Your mother crash landed there two months ago by our reckoning. Any questions, yet?”

 

Trunks grinned and asked, “What’s your name?”

 

She blinked in surprise, then smirked.

 

“My name is Sansai, Sire. Sansai, daughter of Aspar and Negi of the second class,” she proclaimed with pride. 

 

 _Sansai,_ he repeated the name a few times under his breath, tasting the syllables.

 

“Call me Trunks, please,” he said, uncomfortable with the formality. Even in his most authoritative moments, Kenji and the others called him ‘Mr. Briefs.’ A strange, secret smile played at her lips and she shrugged.

 

“As you wish.”

 

The expression faded to one of wary stoicism, and she eyed him intensely, as if to take the measure of him. Trunks imagined how he looked to her: a shirtless, purple-haired half-breed with a scruffy beard, no tail, and red polka dot boxers peeking from under his pants. Sansai’s eyes slid away from his and she addressed the rain and clouds.

 

“I must warn you . . . about your mother. She is a bit . . . different.” Trunks tensed. A thousand macabre possibilities ran through his head, each more disturbing than the last.

 

“Different how?” he asked. She heard the despairing note in his voice and craned her head to look at him, the same compassion in her gaze.

 

“It is nothing bad, Pr—Trunks. As a reward, Supreme Kai gave her a wish. Your mother wished that all who is or will be mated to a Saiyan shares their lifespan. And since your mother is bonded to your father . . .”

 

Trunks would have asked about how Mom met the Supreme Kai, and what bonding was and a dozen other things, but he saw her and all thought fled from his head. In a small clearing in the forest, he saw the bulk of her machine and a small blue figure standing next to it, shading her eyes with her hand against the rain. A wrenching longing tore from his heart and rattled around in his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he missed her until that moment. Warm moisture blurred his gaze and Trunks swiped a hand over his eyes, blaming the rain. The burning anger that had lingering like foul poison in the hidden chambers of his heart dissipated like fog burned off by the sun in an overwhelming tide of love.

 

She saw him and even from the soaring height, Trunks could see the tension in her posture. An instant’s doubt assailed him and he landed across the clearing, intensely aware of Sansai beside him. Despite the warning, Trunks had trouble reconciling the image of his mom that he had carried in his heart all his life to the image of this young, nubile woman standing before him, looking no older than her mid-twenties. Kami, the two of them could pass for siblings, not mother and son!

 

Even her ki was different, much stronger than before. Something else lingered too, something none of his senses could fully comprehend, like faint strains of music fading into silence in his inner ear, or a palpable aura of peace shrouding her. She looked . . . happy. Like some candle had been lit inside her soul and she glowed with it. A nervous smile quirked her lips and she lifted her hand in a two-fingered wave.

 

“Hi, hun,” her voice quavered. Trunks’ hands twitched nervously at his sides. So much to say and so much he couldn’t. For a moment, all was quiet save for the soft explosions of rain on the ground, the chiming music against the hull of the ship, and the quiet rasp of breathing.

 

“Hi Mom,” he summoned at last.

 

The words broke some dam inside her, for she flung herself at him, laughing and crying both. Her embrace was reassuringly solid, and although he’d grown at least six inches in three years of her absence, Trunks still felt engulfed in her arms, wrapped with the sweet essence of her, soft scents of lilac and honey filling his nose. She had always felt cool and slender and fragile in his arms, even as her heart burned with inner fire. Now there was a new vibrancy that intrigued him, warming her even in the chill of wind and rain.

 

“I missed you so much, Trunks. I never stopped thinking about you,” she whispered, face hidden in the tangled forest of his wet hair. Trunks returned her embrace, but loosened his grip when she gasped. As she pulled back, she combed his hair from his eyes.

 

“Saiyan hugs. You think I’d get used to having my chest squeezed,” she said, one hand fluttering to the base of her throat. She tossed her long hair over her shoulder and as she did so, Trunks noticed a small scar at the base of her neck.

It was fresh.

 

She braced her hands on his shoulders, and looked him over. When her gaze alighted on the scars on his arms and belly, her face darkened. Trunks was once more smote by a wave of shame. His scars repulsed even Mom. Visibly, she pushed away her revulsion and brightened.

 

“I hate to sound cliché, but my, how you’ve grown!” she grabbed a chunk of his hair and let it fall, wet and heavy.

 

“You need a haircut, son. And what’s this? A beard?” one white finger tickled the tuft of silky lavender hair on his chin. Trunks chuckled, scratching the back of his head bashfully.

 

“I kinda like it this way, Mom.” He cast a glance towards Sansai and found her standing tall with her arms crossed under her breasts, unbothered by the buffeting wind and stinging rain, watching the exchange between them blankly. Trunks wasn’t bothered by the cold either, but Mom was beginning to shiver.

 

“We should get out of the rain. There’s a meal and a hot shower waiting for you at home,” he said with an air of authority that he never would have dared before. He was dying to hear her story, but would wait until the necessities had been taken care of. He waited for her to arch a brow and say some sarcastic comment. None came. Instead, she pecked a kiss on his cheek.

 

“That sounds wonderful,” she said. Mom turned back to the large crate on the ground, and began to pick it up. Half a second later, Sansai lifted the crate up with one hand out of Mom’s grasp. Her face was thunderous with disapproval. They exchanged swiftly whispered words, on the edge of Trunks’ hearing. He caught the words ‘condition’ and ‘not yet.’ Mom encapsulated her machine and turned to him with a smile. At his questioning glance, she waved a hand.

 

“Never mind Sansai, Trunks. She thinks that just because I’m human I can’t lift anything over ten pounds. Now, my air car and bike met rather unfortunate ends on my trip. Would you mind carrying your mom home?”

 

 

 

 

Trunks watched Sansai furtively as they returned to Capsule Corp. There were still several hours until dawn, and the Capsule Corp complex was cast in shadow. Trunks was grateful for this small mercy. Interested in practicality rather than beauty, the only vegetation around the house were plants Videl tended, the furnishings within were years old: clean, but worn and sparse. She was no doubt used to a palace’s grandeur and full-blood Saiyan men falling all over her . . .

 

Her face was a closed book, however, lacking even a hint of emotion. She sensed his stare and turned those dark-fire eyes on him, luminous against blank, gray sky. Immediately, Trunks felt warmer, his heartbeat speeding up. Kami, he was acting like a drooling idiot! _You’d think I’d be used to looking at a girl. Hell, I know everyone thinks I’m sleeping with Videl . . ._ the thought of Videl chilled his fevered thoughts.

 

Setting Mom down, Trunks snapped himself out of it, leaving them to their ablutions to rummage up some food. The Calm had been profitable; workers were able to bring in abandoned crops and hunters fresh meat to process. While there was always hot food in the buttery below, Trunks didn’t want to risk the questions when he grabbed twice what he normally needed. Padding into the kitchen, Trunks noticed that he was leaving a trail of water and mud behind him. He cursed and raised his ki to dry himself. Popping his head into the G.R., he grabbed a baggy t-shirt and shrugged it on, replacing his sword to its place across his back.

 

The fridge’s contents were adequate, with enough left over roast beef and potatoes to feed them. Did Saiyan women eat as much as the men? Trunks shrugged and threw the lot of it into his industrial-sized microwave. Trunks stabbed a hole in lids of tin cans of peaches for dessert. He set three places, and slammed three bottles of water beside the forks. Bottled water and canned food they had by the truckload.

 

The faintest twitch of movement caught his attention and he jerked towards the door, his hand on his sword hilt. It was Sansai, arms and ankles crossed, leaning against the doorjamb. Human clothes looked odd on her, sweat pants and t-shirt a glaring contrast to her musculature and air of taut self-confidence. Her hair she had bound in a low ponytail much like his.

 

“I had to cut a hole in these pants for my tail,” she said, tilting her hips to one side to show the long, nimble tail threaded through a neat hole in the loose gray fabric hitched on her hips. Trunks watched the tail in fascination, wondering abstractly how it felt to have another appendage. Imagining a giant ape stomping around on the next full moon, he asked, “When the moon is full, can you control the change?”

 

“Yes,” she said with some pride, “It is difficult, but yes, I can control myself even in direct moonlight.”  Her tail swayed, and writhed, before winding neatly around her waist, seemingly of its own accord.  

 

“A fine weapon,” she complimented, nodding to his sword.

 

“Thank you. Mom made the original design, but I tweaked it a bit. I know it like the back of my hand,” he said, unfastening the sheath and handing it to her for inspection. Their fingers brushed accidentally and Trunks jerked back, struggling to master the heat in his face. Clearing her throat, Sansai accepted the weapon and pulled it a few inches from the sheath, admiring the mirror bright alloy. Steel, as it turned out, was too brittle for the kind of abuse he put it through. What now comprised the sword were titanium as well as a modified alloy from Goku’s space pod, which was able to withstand high heat and pressure without breaking.

 

“It suits you. Most of our people do not use weapons. The elegance of a sword is beyond them. A fist or a foot in the face is much more direct and much more satisfying,” she said, with a small smile. Resheathing the blade, she handed it back. Trunks accepted her compliment, and delighted in the ‘our.’ For the first time since Gohan died, there was someone who truly understood him, who knew what it meant to be Saiyan.

And she knew it better than he did.

 

The microwave announced that their food was ready with a keening beep, and Trunks slung his sword over the back of his chair and extracted the food, setting it down with a triumphant grin, the smug pride he imagined a caveman had when he threw his kill on the floor for his woman. The plate would have burned his mom’s fingers, but Trunks had learned in the forging of his sword that the thin ki shield Saiyans automatically kept around their bodies repelled extremes in temperature. He turned to find Sansai studying him with a puzzled frown.

 

“You make your own food? Do you not have servants, Trunks?” she asked, genuinely surprised. The notion was so ludicrous that he laughed, for the first time in a long time. He laughed until his sides ached and his cheeks ached with the unaccustomed burden of a smile. When he regained control of his faculties, he saw Sansai was caught somewhere between perplexity and anger, her eyes glittering at the thought of being the butt of a joke she didn’t understand.

 

“Sorry, Sansai. But . . . but here, I am leader, but I am not their prince, or their god. If they don’t drink soda or get waited on by servants, than neither will I,” Trunks said. While anger faded, confusion persisted and she took her seat slowly.

 

“But you _are_ a prince, and their better. They should be grateful that you deign them worthy of--”

 

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like they are ungrateful,” he interrupted, “they aren’t ungrateful at all. In fact, they often make or buy gifts for me that I refuse. I have food, shelter, a place to train. In this world, terrorized by the androids for so many years, money has lost its value. When they start anew, it will be a much simpler world, at least for a while.”

 

He said ‘they’ as if he stood outside of their struggle. In many ways, he was on the fringe of it. He was their leader, and had sworn to kill the androids, but kept himself out their affairs for the most part. Kenji was their most immediate superior. Sansai glared at him skeptically, but argued no more. Silence stretched between them.

 

“So,” Trunks said conversationally, “why did you come back with my mother?”

 

Her eyes flickered, and for a moment, Trunks could have sworn that he saw her cheeks redden. It disappeared so quickly Trunks decided he imagined it. Sansai’s eyes followed the idle movements of her fingertip as she traced the whorls and lines in the worn wood table.

 

“There are many reasons,” she said evasively, “I was assigned as your mother’s bodyguard and . . . well, while I found it a trying task to keep her out of trouble . . . she became my friend.” The smile that touched her lips was closer to a grimace at this admission of emotion, but it did not conceal the affection in her eyes.

 

“I came with her because I wanted to see her safe. But mostly I came because your father wanted me to.” Trunks flinched at the mention of his father, then kicked himself mentally. Sansai had mentioned a bond of some kind between his parents . . .

Old father-wanting welled within him, yearning for the presence of a man and prince that had meant so much to his mother. Trunks took a long draught of water to still himself.

 

“King Vegeta thought I might be of some assistance to you, against your enemies. I am a warrior of some distinction,” she said and this time Trunks sensed humility, not hauteur, which he found interesting.

 

“And I am close, he says . . . close to transforming.”

 

Trunks blinked, then peered at her ki more closely. Yes, his father would be right in that assumption, her power hummed bright and hot under her skin, so very close to the golden sunburst that was so dearly bought. But what would it take to push her over the precipice, this warrior of his father’s?

 

“Also,” Sansai continued, “he wanted me to teach you the language and customs of our people. For when we go back.”

 

The plans whirled around him with dizzying speed. Oh, just kill the androids and fly away? Just like that? Irrationally, Trunks found his fists clenching in anger, stinging words of recrimination on his tongue. How dare she assume that he’d leave without a backward glance! This was his home, not some desert planet full of strangers, ruled by a father he had never met . . . Trunks leapt to his feet, face black with anger. Without even seeing her move, two warm fingers were pressed to the underside of his chin, a deadly calm masking her face.

 

“I don’t know what I said or did to anger you, Trunks, but know this: if you attack me, with words or fists, I will defend myself. I did not earn the honor of protecting the king’s mate by being a weakling in battle. Do not underestimate me,” she said softly, gentle volume underscoring the earnestness of her words. The anger fled from Trunks, replaced with a rending stab of something hot and consuming he couldn’t identify, a hunger tearing through his innards that was instinctive and primal to his blood. He could feel her heartbeat through her fingertips and the scent wafting from her skin was musky and mysterious, winding sinuous tendrils around his senses.

 

Scorching reality nudged its way into his brain. _Keep it in your pants, Briefs!_ He screamed at himself, _You’ve only known the woman for an hour. Stop acting like a horny teenager!_ She must have seen the truth of what he felt in his eyes, for she stepped away, face unreadable, and quietly speared herself portions of meat and potato.

 

“Mmm, smells good in here, Trunks! What’s cooking?” Mom said, breezing into the room. She wore her normal raiment of jeans and a t-shirt, but her long hair was bound up with a set of fine ivory combs, tiny sapphires glinting among the pale blue waves. Her presence diffused the tension between Trunks and Sansai, and the atmosphere relaxed.

 

“Roast beef. A few of older ones of our stock were butchered not too long ago. I’ve had all the beef I can stand,” Trunks said lightly, ladling a plate for his mom, then several for himself. Sansai’s eyes lingered on Bulma’s plate for a few seconds and Trunks knew she was wondering at the small portions, as Trunks often did. As soon as the food was served, Sansai dug in, not speaking or looking up. Trunks smiled at Mom and her blue eyes darted between the two of them shrewdly, not fooled for an instant.

 

Her swan-like neck bared, Trunks got a good look at the scar. Small, round and dark, it stood out freshly healed on her throat. What had happened, was she burned, bitten? Curiosity smoldered within him, but he tempered it with hard-won patience. She would tell him in her own time and badgering her as he used to only lengthened the time in telling. In three years, he had learned the value of silence. It could be used as a weapon, many times keener than his sword.

 

They finished the meal in silence, but it was not an uncomfortable one. Rain drummed on the roof pleasantly and the kitchen was warm and cozy. Trunks realized just how much he had missed company. Videl preferred eating with her father in the bunkers most nights, and Kenji had his own family. He watched Sansai eat surreptitiously, drawn to her by some irresistible force. She ate enough to rival Gohan in an eating contest, but with a decorum and grace that rivaled his mom’s aristocratic manners.

 

To his surprise, she rose and gathered the dishes when they were finished and began washing them without preamble. It was her way of apology, he supposed. Together, he and Mom wandered into the living room and sat on the couch. Away from Sansai’s distracting presence, Trunks felt his curiosity overwhelm him.

 

Mom’s face blanked in an unfamiliar expression and Trunks panicked for an instant, grabbing her hand. Looking into her eyes, he felt a light brush against his consciousness, the downy caress of flower petals with a waft of their perfume. Trunks felt the impression of blue, a vibrant living blue, as fluid and temperamental as the sea. Twisted inextricably with it, there was a glow of gold like the feral intelligence of a predator’s eye, a violent, virile presence that was almost overwhelming. At first he recoiled, but Mom’s voice rang clear and sweet in his head.

 

 _It’s okay, Trunks. Sansai was only telling me something private. Saiyans are telepathic, did you know that?_    

 

Trunks frowned and opened his mouth to speak. He snapped his mouth shut in a grimace of concentration, mustering thought into a lucid message. It came easier than he thought it would. Years of sensing life energy naturally segued into connecting on a mental level, he thought.

 

 _How did_ you _learn it, Mom?_

 

Her fingertip wandered to the scar.

 

_Let’s just say your father taught me. I’ll tell you more about it later._

 

“Mom, would you please tell me what happened? You and Sansai keep telling me these half-truths, and it’s driving me crazy!” Trunks slipped into speech, unsure whether to be relieved or indignant when his mother laughed.

 

“You’ve been more than patient, Trunks. Okay. I’ll tell you.”

 

Her story was a long, convoluted one, but Trunks didn’t interrupt unless she slipped out a name or place he wasn’t familiar with. And he felt she was editing out bits of it, glossing over details. By the time she finished, the sun had risen to its zenith, peeking through the thick veil of clouds in scattered, shifting beams. Sometime during Mom’s narrative, Sansai had sat on the floor, staring outside window with the mysterious crate at her feet. Trunks stared at the back of her head with a new sort of empathy. In the hands of Frieza’s torturer for one endless week, waiting to die . . . it was a terrible thought. She did not move or speak, and Trunks knew that any solace offered would be taken not with grace, but contempt.

 

“There are gifts for you, Trunks,” Bulma said, rising to her feet with a fluid, youthful grace. Gifts from Planet Vegeta. From his father, the king.

 

Trunks grinned like a little kid on Christmas morning, baffled and pleased at the prospect of a gift. Mom opened the crate and handed him a small package wrapped in a thin sort of paper that felt like silk. He opened the shimmering wrapping carefully, and, in the nest of wrapping, he saw a large medallion. The silver chain spilled between his fingers, and he saw his reflection in the silver stone, its sapphire rim gleamed, geometric designs vibrant under his seeking fingertips.

 

“That is the medallion given to the Prince of Planet Vegeta through the generations for the past thousand years,” said Sansai.

 

“He pays you a great honor,” she continued softly, “He claims you as his son and heir to the black throne. It’s never been done for a hybrid.” The medallion blurred as his eyes filled, his heart hammering with tangled emotions. Trunks cradled the proof of his father’s love to his heart as one would an infant.

 

“I will treasure it always,” he choked, “and I will strive to be worthy of it.” The soft pressure of Mom’s hand on his knee was comforting, as was the second of unguarded gentleness in Sansai’s black eyes.

 

Trunks gathered the shreds of his equanimity; it had been blown to pieces in the last few hours and he felt vulnerable at its loss. The medallion would have been enough for him, but the crate was still full.  Exhaling a large breath, he held out his hands for the next of the crate’s contents. Beneath the medallion was another gift from his father, a white chestplate of armor, the armor of an Elite, Sansai said, with Planet Vegeta’s crest emblazoned over the heart. It was surprisingly light, he thought, holding it by the shoulder straps and inspecting its design.

 

Reaching eagerly inside himself, he found gifts from others as well: Kakkarot sent a fragment of rock he had found on Shekhal, a variety that was as luminescent as a pearl, and glowed faintly in darkness. Raditz, Kakkarot’s older brother and Gohan’s uncle, gave him a scouter programmed with a translating chip to help teach him written Saiyago. Trunks reached his hand into the depths of the crate, groping for anything he missed. His fingers touched another wrapped package and he fished it out, surprised by its weight.

 

“This one is from Sansai, _A History of the Planet Vegeta_ , by Tora of the Elites,” Mom said, peeling back the wrapping to reveal a large, leather bound book. Shocked, he looked up to Sansai and saw the glimmer of a blush.

 

“I am _kahntor_ , story-teller, of my squad. I thought you might like a written work of our people,” she mumbled, fastening her gaze on the worn carpet.

 

“It’s cool. I—I mean, it’s . . .” he trailed off; searching for an adjective that would do justice to his wordless reception by people he had never met.

 

“I am honored by these gifts. Thank you.” he finished, finding speech a hollow, inadequate thing.  Sansai broke the contemplative silence by standing and staring at Trunks. A tiny smile flirted with the corner of her mouth and she glanced between Trunks and his mother.

 

“Bulma tells me you have a gravity room. For training?”

 

Trunks nodded.

 

“Good. Come, Prince of Planet Vegeta, come and show me what you can do.”

 

A breathless thrill tore through him at the thought of sparring with someone close to his own strength, especially one as beautiful as Sansai. He leapt to his feet.

 

“Let’s go.”    

 


	2. Videl

Coming home was far stranger than she ever thought possible. The sprawling grounds of Capusle Corp suddenly seemed much smaller after the massive scale of Planet Vegeta’s palace and Planet Frieza’s titanic city. When Bulma finally found her bed, it felt too small, and almost unbearably lonely without Vegeta’s fever hot body and quiet breathing behind her. Twice in the night she reached for him, swearing she felt the brush of his tail against her thigh, but found only cool sheets. Missing him was a constant ache in her chest, soothed only by the bond, which was, miraculously, still intact. Though she could not hear his words, she felt the undulating waves of his emotions and it was a comfort to her.

 

But greater than all other changes was the change in Trunks. The inward bend of his thoughts was complete. Gone was the bright child whose every thought she was privy to. She could discern no change in his features unless he wanted her to. He was more like Vegeta than she wanted to admit, knowing intimately the hellish experiences that had molded her bonded mate into the man he had been, in this time as well as his own. Trunks’ silence was calmer, and she saw the polite and perceptive boy she had raised through the stoic shell of a warrior. 

 

Bulma silently cursed the Supreme Kai for talking her into this strange deal. Her time machine was only good before two more trips: one to warn Goku, and the other to return to Planet Vegeta. Maybe she should have gone back the three years, if only to save him pain . . . 

A slight smile curved at her lips. One thing, at least, was turning out as expected. Vegeta had been right, of course, Trunks had noticed Sansai. More than once Bulma had seen his gaze slide over her in naked appreciation.

 

She was still smiling as she took a shower and ambled down the stairs to the kitchen. Distantly, she heard the hum of the G.R. and knew that Sansai and Trunks had been training since dawn, if they had paused at all since yesterday afternoon. They would be hungry, she knew, and quickly began cooking up dozens of pancakes. _It will be nice,_ she thought, _not having to cook for ravenous Saiyans everyday._

 

A crash on the tile drew Bulma from her concentration and she whirled around, spatula in hand. She found a girl standing in the doorway, a tin watering can dumping its contents into a widening puddle, sinking in tiny runnels in the grout. Bulma and the girl stood staring at each other, wary and thoughtful.

 

The girl was the same height as Bulma and near Trunks and Sansai’s age, boasting a short shock of black hair and bright blue eyes with a soft, slender body clad in ragged sweat pants and a too-long t-shirt. On her hands were fingerless black gloves similar to the ones she saw tossed carelessly on Trunks’ bed. Her hands curled into fists that she planted on her hips in a wide, defiant stance, her eyes blazing.

 

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in here?” she demanded, an imperious note of authority creeping into her voice. Pique overwhelmed any polite platitudes on her tongue and Bulma shot back, “I _live_ here! Who the hell are _you_?”

 

“Bullshit!” the girl shouted, closing the distance between them and stabbing a fingertip into Bulma’s chest, “only Trunks lives up here! Does he even know you’re here?”

 

Bulma slapped away the drilling finger with her spatula, striving for calm. She raked a hand through her tousled blue locks and tried to think logically. The girl had no idea who she was, and . . . a thought struck her, taking in the girl’s form again. She was a lovely girl, a bit tomboyish, but then so was Sansai.  Was Trunks . . . ? 

 

“Look,” Bulma said, laying aside the spatula and turning the stove’s heat on low, “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

 

Bulma extended her hand in a conciliatory handshake. Her perception whetted after weeks around hard-to-read Saiyans, the girl’s emotions were as clear to Bulma as they would if written on her forehead. Curiosity, suspicion, and a kernel of open friendliness lingered in her direct blue gaze. She took the proffered hand and shook it firmly.

 

“All right, I’ll bite. My name is Videl. Trunks can’t even keep a cactus alive, so I come up here in the mornings and water the plants and make him breakfast if he’s training,” she said, peering at her with hawk-like intensity.

 

It took Bulma a moment to realize why. She was young and beautiful again, and, from Videl’s perspective, it would look like that she was horning in on her turf, as it were. Bulma frowned. This threw a monkey wrench into her plans for organizing a courtship between her son and Sansai. She shook herself and smiled, trying to assuage her fears.

 

“Hello, Videl. I’m Bulma, Trunks’ mother. I realize this is a bit of a shock, but I just returned home yesterday . . .”

 

Videl flinched back as if struck across the face. Bulma had always thought the descriptions of paranormal encounters a bit farfetched, but upon seeing Videl blanch and shake as if she had just confessed to having two heads, she was inclined to reassess that opinion. Videl staggered back, falling into one of the chairs. The chair slid back a few inches, creating a hideous screech on the kitchen tile.

 

“You’re Trunks’ mom? Bu—but you’re . . . you look like . . .” she stammered, wide-eyed. Bulma smirked and flicked her long hair over one shoulder.

 

“Look damn good for my age, don’t I? I was  . . . erm, young when I had Trunks,” Bulma finished lamely. Videl looked up at her, half amused, half baffled with a hesitant smile on her lips.

 

“I’m sorry I yelled at you, Mrs. Briefs. I was just surprised. Everyone . . . even Trunks thought that you were dead.”

 

The softly spoken words were daggers to her heart and Bulma found herself blinking back tears. Her poor baby . . .

 

“It’s all right, Videl. It was just a bit of a misunderstanding is all. Now, tell me about yourself while I fix breakfast.”

 

Videl rose with gratitude shining in her eyes.

 

“I’ll help.”

 

 

 

 

Just as Bulma and Videl set leaning skyscrapers of pancakes and bacon on the table, Trunks entered, hair loosened from its tie and clinging to his sweaty face messily. Sweat gleamed on the compact muscles of his arms and chest, his discarded muscle shirt slung over his shoulder in tatters. Head cocked to listen to Sansai, Bulma’s heart fluttered at the soft laughter bubbling like music from his throat.

 

“ . . . I tell you no lie, Prince Trunks,” Sansai was saying, chuckling herself, “my squad-brother Zuki slit his battlesuit as a joke. Kakkarot’s pants fell down in the middle of Council. It was--”

 

As one, they turned to see Bulma and Videl at the table. Bulma watched Sansai’s face and saw an instant of smoldering anger and heart-rending grief before it was quickly banked. Dried blood was smeared on her lower lip, and her hair bristled in its normal gravity-defying spikes. Videl and Sansai’s eyes met and tension crackled almost audibly between them. Sansai smirked in an exact mimicry of Vegeta, her face hard and strong. Trunks recovered from his shock quickly and made introductions.

 

Once the formalities were completed, Sansai squared her shoulders and took her seat, unwinding her tail from around her waist in a study of casual nonchalance. A challenge, Bulma thought, or a snub. She is saying ‘Look, I’m more like him than you could ever be.’ Videl’s eyes slid over Sansai’s sleek form, olive skin glistening with a sheen of sweat to match Trunks’ and clad in a skin-tight battlesuit. Her eyes locked on the furred, chocolate brown appendage with something between disgust and fascination.

 

It was a quiet meal, broken only by clinking of utensils on china and muted sounds of chewing. Any attempts by Trunks to stimulate conversation were rebuffed in silence. Videl and Sansai stared at each other and more than once Bulma saw Videl shift uncomfortably in her chair. Bulma smiled secretly. She knew the darker, more violent aspects of a Saiyan psyche intimately and could hardly fathom what Vegeta would have done had there been another suitor contesting her heart. Yamcha was out of the picture by the time they came together, and Bulma knew the Saiyan Prince had thought Yamcha beneath his notice. Any poor fool who _looked_ at her, including his own squad, had earned his suspicion and the lash of his acidic tongue. Tension between Sansai and Videl was palpable, and Trunks looked miserable, glancing between his erstwhile companion and his Saiyan sparring partner nervously.

 

The absurdity of it was almost amusing, especially for Bulma who sat on the fringe. Bulma ate with alacrity, consuming twice what she’d normally eat. Sansai’s dark eyes met hers over the wreckage of several pancakes and rivers of syrup and softened infinitesimally. Wordlessly, she nudged the bacon platter closer, a smile flirting with the corner of her mouth. Bulma shook her head. Sansai nudged it closer.

 

_Eat, Bulma. The baby prince needs nourishment, especially red meat. Besides, you are too thin._

Bulma arched a brow.

 

_I’ll make you a deal, Sansai. Stop glaring daggers at poor Videl and I’ll eat._

Sansai glowered at her.

 

_Poor Videl, is it? You drive a hard bargain, my lady. I suppose I could . . . ‘lighten up’ a bit._

Bulma smiled smugly, nibbling obediently on a piece of bacon. Sansai’s posture relaxed only fractionally, and the hard-eyed stare was replaced with a cool speculation.

 

_Relax, hun. Stop staring at her like she’s going to jump Trunks the second you look away!_

 

Tension visibly ebbed from her and she shot Bulma a sardonic glare.

 

 _Anything else, Highness?_ She asked dryly.

 

_Yes. Smile. You have such a beautiful smile._

Her cheeks burned with embarrassed pleasure and Bulma shot a glance to one side to find Trunks watching them intently as he chewed. Bulma frantically checked the soundness of the mental connection between her and Sansai. No, he wasn’t eavesdropping, only curious.

 

The news of her pregnancy remained unknown to him and Bulma wanted to keep it that way for a while, at least until she and her son were properly reacquainted. She didn’t want him to think that she was replacing him . . . and, a small part of her mind acknowledged, she was terrified by the prospect of Trunks hating her for leaving. Trunks disarmed her fears with a beaming smile of joy so pure her heart ached to see it. Then his blue eyes shifted to Sansai and the smile faded into a momentary expression of confusion. She intrigued him, as much as Vegeta had intrigued Bulma. The typical Saiyan reticence was a devastating allure to a scientist’s mind.

 

Bulma studied Sansai, finding her slouching in her chair. Videl, oblivious to the byplay between them, looked up momentarily. Sansai, as requested, bared her teeth in a toothy smile, but it held the barest hint of malice, more a predator’s warning than an expression of friendliness. Bulma rolled her eyes. While the girl was loyal to a fault, she always managed to achieve the end she wanted within the range of obedience.

 

The whole table flinched as Sansai leaned forward quickly, her face an inch from Videl’s. To her credit, Videl barely moved, undaunted by the picture of exotic lethality before her. Trunks tensed, ready to restrain Sansai if need be. Batting her eyes innocently, Sansai thrust her plate towards Videl. Her voice was smoke and honey, even as her eyes glinted.

 

“More pancakes, please.”

*~*

_Time unfurled before him like a living tapestry of infinite intricacy, each shining thread a life intertwining with countless others. He could not see the entire design, but could discern spiraling fractals imbedded in the pattern. As his eyes focused on one tangled knot of color, the vision sucked him in. As with all his visions, he watched as a spectator, removed from any logical sequence of time or location._

_The air was acrid with the scents of blood, dried sweat and the metallic smell of ki. Before him unfurled a desperate battle. Small, winking jewels of light shone in the darkness, and creatures swarmed en masse to blot out their light, hordes of robotic spiders, it seemed. He saw one of the lights fall, and in a blank, empty horror he saw it was Kakkarot in his Super Saiyan form, the evil spiders tearing his flesh. His soul recoiled in anguish at the sight of his lastborn dead in a pool of his own blood._

_He looked up to find Prince Trunks, fighting with ki and sword, looking every inch the prince of a mighty race. Yet, every time he cut down a mech, three more would take its place. As if hung by some invisible thread, several of the spiders rose in the air behind Trunks. Bardock’s mouth opened in a soundless cry of warning, watching in impotent fury as the silver claws pierced his golden ki shield and thrust clean through his heart._

_A shrill scream resounded on every plane, eloquent with anguish, pain and sorrow. He saw Sansai, glowing with the gift of the gods; fly toward the prince as he fell. With a fevered, maddened desperation she fought through hordes of the evil mech, uncaring of the blood weeping from her wounds or that the pale colors of her power drained to their normal sable. Her power failed her, and she fell the last ten feet, collapsing on his ruined chest. With a soft sigh, she died too. Bonded, Bardock thought, Sansai was bonded with Prince Trunks._

_Blurrily, on the very edges of his sight, he saw two young figures, one with the flame of hair characteristic of the royal house, the other compact and sturdy, performing a strange sort of dance. In a flash of light, they became one, a new being of immense power._

_The last light burned brightest. It was King Vegeta. Bardock’s heart raced with a awed tremor, for the king had ascended again. His hair thrust in golden spikes down his back, golden light and lightning throbbing with their own life around him. Anointed with blood and cloaked in fire, screaming defiance to the enemies that sought to smite him, he was the prince of gods that the legends sang of._

He awoke, soaked in sweat, in his bed in the palace. Swinging his long legs over the side of the bed, he sat with his head in his hands, trying to shake off the dregs of the vision. It was rare for his gift to manifest itself in his dreams. For this, Bardock found enough gratitude in his soul to thank the gods for it. The macabre images he saw when waking were enough to leave scars upon his soul. He could scarcely imagine surviving if those futures haunted his dreams as well. Surreptitiously, he stretched his senses out, noting with some relief that both his sons were safe. The way he doted upon them did not go unnoticed and he hated to give rise to new rumors.

 

He slipped out of bed, trying hard not to disturb his sleeping bedmate. She stirred, but slipped back into sleep with a soft growl, her thick brown hair spilling over the pillow. While not mated yet, he and Fasha had been courting since Moontime. It was a bittersweet comfort; to find someone to fill the void of his beloved Roma’s absence . . .

 

He yanked on a pair of training shorts and strode through the dark halls of the palace to the king’s suite. Nappa stood guard outside, force of habit rather than necessity, Bardock thought, the burly Elite had guarded King Vegeta since he was in the cradle.

 

“Had another vision, third class?” he sneered, blocking his passage with his massive frame. Bardock glared up at him. The idiot had always discounted his gift, and despised his closeness with the king, even though Bardock had only helped the Saiyan people. Men like Nappa were the reason Bardock had visions of civil war.

 

“I need to speak with the king, Nappa. He bade me to alert him of any new visions. Do you presume to disobey his order?” Bardock said calmly, not rising to his bait. The visions were draining, and he didn’t have the energy to spare arguing. Nappa’s face twisted in an expression of open malice and a dull cunning, like that of a large beast.

 

Muttering under his breath in Saiyago, he opened the door and together, the two of them strode across the massive room to the king’s bed. He looked dangerous even in sleep, his brow knit in a perpetual scowl, his long limbs muscled and lithe. Bardock, his mind still buzzing with receptive psychic waves, saw his king deeply in dreams of his woman. The ache of nostalgia was almost palpable. At Bardock’s discreet clearing of the throat, King Vegeta’s eyes snapped open. Upon sighting them, his upper lip curled in a snarl.

 

“This better be good, Seer.”

 

“I told him to le--” Nappa began.

 

“Get out Nappa. Go stuff your face or something,” the king interrupted, rising gracefully. As was the Saiyan habit, he wore nothing to sleep in, and he pulled on loose gi pants. The Elite bowed and left the room, Vegeta’s hawk-like eyes following him. When they were alone, the king waved a hand and the two of them sat at the table and ate a light snack. 

 

“I have had a vision, Sire, in my dreams. A perplexing one,” he said, carefully keeping his gaze on his plate. In losing his woman and Sansai to the Ice Clan, Bardock had lost the king’s trust and once lost, it was never given again. His own inadequacy during Moontime haunted him. In over forty years with the gift, how had he overlooked it? Shaking off such futile contemplation, he realized the king was waiting for him to elaborate.

 

He told it as clearly as he could, trying to form solidarity out of smoke and the mists of what may be. Aspects of this vision were particularly vivid and Bardock inferred that these elements were more certain. He related to the king that it was his belief that he would ascend again, Prince Trunks would return to this plane, but with Sansai as his mate or not, that was still blurry in his mind’s eye. The king did not look angry at the prospect of his heir mating with a second class, quite the opposite, the corners of his eyes and mouth softened in a rare, minute expression of tenderness.

 

“These . . . creatures you Saw . . .” Vegeta said, drawing the conversation down a serous vein.

 

“I cannot tell you what design they are, but they were beyond number, and cut even our skin like a ki blade through meat.”

 

The king sighed heavily and Bardock looked on with sympathy as the mantle of kingship weighed its burden on him. But Vegeta the twenty-ninth was the strongest and most cunning of his line. The visions of his rule were always powerful and prosperous.

 

“Another evil lurks, seeking our destruction. Gods, as if there weren’t enough. Return to your bed, Seer. This new vision will be Seen better at dawn.”

*~*


	3. Heads or Tails

His mother’s miraculous reappearance caused no small stir amongst the people of the bunkers, many of whom that uprooted themselves and their families at the sound of her voice on the radio. The ‘official’ story she came up with—literally on the spot, he noted with some amusement—was that while on a very important mission, she had been captured and taken off-world; the effects of space travel had made her appear younger. Sansai had released her from her captors and together they returned home, but not before three years had passed. They bought it hook, line and sinker. Sansai too, was something of a celebrity, Trunks saw. The available—and some of the unavailable—young men flocked around her as if she were a shiny new toy.

 

Irrational anger stirred in his heart and he struggled to suppress it, growing tetchy in trying. Videl noticed and Trunks sighed. When first their friendship blossomed, they both had slightly romantic delusions. But since Gohan’s death, he had found himself unable to truly open his heart. The loss of his best friend had broken something in him irreparably. So he had told her plainly that there would be no romance between them and she had contented herself with friendship. Or so he thought.

 

 

 

 

The talk and excitement mellowed over the next week, and the two of them were absorbed into the infrastructure of Capsule Corp. Mom made no move to retake control, and Trunks was grateful that she respected his authority and judgment. Instead, she worked in her lab or in the house. There were changes in her habits, ones that she tried to hide, such as tiredness and an increased appetite. The prospect of leaving Earth for Planet Vegeta was still a strange and foreign one to him, but with the gifts from his father in his bedroom, he found himself softening to the idea. Mom assured him it wouldn’t be anytime soon.

 

Sansai remained autonomous, lending a hand only when asked. Largely, she became Trunks’ taskmaster, to fill the free hours he now had. Trunks enjoyed her company, especially in training. She was a strong and canny fighter, swifter and more artistic than Gohan, subtly female, yet with pure Saiyan strength. She also made it her task to teach him the basis of Saiyan law and customs, which Trunks took to with alacrity.

 

“You are a good warrior, Trunks,” she complimented after an intense bout in the G.R., “amazing for being largely self-taught--”

 

“I wasn’t self-taught,” Trunks snapped, “I had a master. His name was Gohan. I’ll bet he doesn’t count. He was a half-breed, like me . . .”

 

“Gohan,” she repeated, speaking to herself, “Kakkarot’s brat in this time.”

 

Anger flashed bright and hot and Trunks grabbed a fistful of her battlesuit, his fist raised. His voice was deadly calm. Gods, what was it about her that made his temper so short, that made his heart slam in his chest, that made him edgy and touchy?

 

“He was no brat. He was my best friend and an honorable warrior,” he choked.

 

She spread her hands.

 

“I meant no disrespect to you or to Kakkarot’s—Gohan. But it is truth, is it not? He was so young when the warriors died here . . . he had to teach himself, by necessity, and you, as his pupil. He honed natural talent and instinct to a keen edge, like the warriors of old. It is no insult. And you have done remarkably well, lacking formal training with no one of your strength to aid you.”

 

Admiration burned in her dark eyes. So black and shining . . . he could fall into them and lose himself. Trunks realized he had dragged her close, the curled fist softening into a cupped palm touching her face. Her skin was hot, unnaturally hot even for a Saiyan. And so smooth . . . he ran his thumb over the thick pulse at the edge of her jaw. A slight tremor ran through her. Half restraining, half clinging, her tail wrapped around his wrist. Curious, Trunks released his fevered grip on her battlesuit and stroked the chocolate brown fur very gently. A soft cry hissed past her lips, her arms linked around his neck, fingernails digging into the hair at the nape of his neck. Every inch of her body pressed against his and his nose filled with her scent, rich and sweet and musky.

 

“You smell good,” he murmured throatily, continuing his unhurried assault on her tail. It was arousing, he thought, watching her melt with pleasure as he touched her tail. Heat unfurled in his belly, blood pounding.

 

“Trunksssssss,” she hissed, her voice low and rough.

 

His mother’s voice cut through the crimson haze of passion obscuring his vision.

 

“Trunks? Sansai? It’s time for dinner.”

 

“Shit,” he muttered, disentangling himself from her, color flooding his face at the erection straining against his pants. Sansai stepped back, wrapping her tail primly around her waist. She blinked, and all that sweet softness in her face vanished. Trunks managed a sheepish smile.

 

“Remind me to apologize as soon as I calm down. Go on ahead. My mom wouldn’t appreciate seeing me in such a state.”

 

She nodded wordlessly and left the G.R., her scent lingering in the air, as cloying as perfume.

 

 

 

 

They didn’t mention the incident. Not that night, and not the next day. She wouldn’t even look at him in her mortification. It hadn’t helped that he had tossed and turned, imagining her there with him, touching every inch of her smooth skin. After breakfast with Videl, they went their separate ways. Sansai helped his mom in the lab and Trunks made his rounds through the bunkers, settling disputes, catching up with logs in his ledger, checking their supplies. It was a typical, routine day. She approached him cautiously in the afternoon as he stood with a bottle of water on the balcony.

 

“Do you wish to train?” she asked, crisp, businesslike.  It cut through any potential awkwardness as easily as his sword, but Trunks wasn’t sure if he was irritated or relieved. Part of him wanted her to admit that she was in the same turmoil as he. Instead he said, “Yes. The androids are due for another attack any time now. I need to be ready.”

 

She nodded in brisk and curt approval. Trunks glared at her from beneath drawn brows in a scowl like his father’s. This stoic warrior’s persona was a mask. How could this be the same woman who had followed his mother through time only to keep her safe? He took in her dress. She wasn’t wearing that distractingly tight battlesuit of hers, or the jeans and t-shirt she wore on their first meeting. Instead she wore loose blue pants and a baggy white shirt. It robbed him of the clean, pleasing shapes of her, or any tantalizing glimpses of anything female.

 

“Good. I would like to gauge your true strength, Trunks,” she said in that even tone. 

 

He frowned.

 

“How do you do that? Want me to power up?” he shot back, his sharp tone contrasting the urbane reserve of hers. She crossed her arms thoughtfully, then shook her head.

 

“No. The best way to find out would be a beam battle. That’s when--”

 

“I know what a beam battle is,” he interrupted, then bit his tongue. It was unlike him to be so aggressive and snappish. _Way to go, Briefs. You’re doing an excellent job of repelling her,_ he thought. He wanted her, there was no use trying to deny that. Wanted her more than he’d wanted anything, he realized that now.

It wasn’t anger, but jealousy.

It wasn’t hunger, but lust.

Everything hot and potent that drew him to her like the tide under the moon’s hypnotic pull.

 

She didn’t even blink at his tone, only shrugged.

 

“It’s the best way to test your control, concentration, and strength.”

 

“We can’t do it here,” Trunks said.

 

“No, not here,” Sansai agreed, with a regretful glance at the G.R , “can you take me to some wild, uninhabited place where we may train without harming someone?”

 

Since the androids made their debut, those places were getting easier to find. Wild, uninhabited save for the corpses of those slaughtered there . . .

 

“What if the androids hear us?” he asked. A puzzled frown marred her dark, sharp face.

 

“Then we will fight,” she said it as if it was the most natural thing in the world. To her it was. Exasperated, Trunks said, “I am the strongest on this planet and I cannot defeat the two of them. You would be . . .”

 

“Don’t fret your pretty head for me, Trunks. I will hold my own if it comes to that. If not,” she shrugged again, a careless lift of one round shoulder, her eyes flashing, “If not, then your mother has a regen tank.”

 

Trunks sighed. There was no arguing with her.  

 

“Come with me.”

 

 

 

 

They landed on a green plain, dotted with tall, narrow plateaus boasting sparse vegetation. Trunks stretched out his senses and nodded. There was no wildlife larger than a lizard for a hundred miles. Sansai inspected their surroundings, hands fisted on her hips, with a smirk of approval. The sun slipped low on the horizon, casting everything in an orange-gold light.

 

“It’s perfect. Let’s begin.”

 

She flew at him, landed one solid punch to the jaw before he caught an incoming leg and threw her away. Their quick, friendly spars were nothing to this. She was out for blood now. _Well,_ he thought, _two can play at that game._ She caught herself and rocketed back at him, ablaze with her power. There was no time for the chivalry Mom had instilled in him from the time he could walk. Only time to defend himself, only time to admire her fire and beauty as his blood quickened with feral joy within him. It was the most primal, most Saiyan of urges, he knew, to thrust out fist and foot as if to say ‘Look, my power matches yours.’

 

Trunks powered up to match her, blocking each of her blows just barely. An instant of disapproval flitted across the calm warrior’s visage. Angry now, Trunks raised his aura higher, before kneeing her in the stomach. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he punched her viciously. An orb of ki slammed into his face, distracting him long enough for her to wiggle from his grasp. They continued on like this for some time as the sun sank lower, until their power was the only light. Abruptly, Trunks realized he was enjoying himself. Panting and smiling, she wiped the sweat from her brow.

 

“A nice warm up. Now for today’s lesson,” she said, and floated up into the air, hundreds of feet above the ground. She powered up fully, her aura thick and blue around her, shining like the stars in the blue-black fabric of the sky.

 

Instead of shouting, her mind reached out to his. By now, he was accustomed to the mental probings of telepathic contact and shielded his more embarrassing feelings from her. He relished the touch of her mind. It was rich and complex and bright, like an intricate piece of living music. He could hear the darker bass notes, the song of Saiyan bloodlust and fierce joy in combat singing now, overlaid with the melody he identified as her, an alluring song of softer, sweeter things, love, loyalty and light.

 

_Raise your power as high as you can without transforming. And don’t you dare hold back because I’m a woman!_

He smiled.

 

_I wouldn’t dream of it, Sansai._

He felt rather than saw her smile. Warm, laughing tones of amusement seeped through her words.

_You’d better not have. Now I haven’t come up with a name for this yet, but this is the blast I used to kill Guldo, the time-shifter of the Ginyu Force._

With a roar, she released her beam from cupped hands, a mighty river of power hued a sharp, pale green. Trunks smiled briefly at the sheer joy of his power singing through his veins, the energy that bent to his will. He released his power with a yell, blue and crisp and crackling.

 

 _Just as well,_ he thought to her, _I haven’t come up with a name for this either. Think of it as the older brother to Goku’s Kamehameha._

 

The two beams met in the air, sizzling it acrid. The light of their ki was brighter than the sun, dazzling his eyes. Trunks’ arms trembled at the shock of impact, sweat popping on his brow at the unimaginable heat. His blood raced with the thrill and challenge. They struggled in a deadlock, then Sansai’s beam flexed, surging forward with renewed vigor. Stone cracked beneath his feet, tiny pebbles and clods of grass floating around him as if suspended in thin air.

 

With a growl, Trunks mastered his control and focused the beam tighter, farther. Sansai’s gave an inch, one precious inch. Kami, she was strong. So very close to transforming. Trunks teetered on the cusp just trying to fight her off. Maybe if he pressed a little harder . . . and harder . . .

 

It all happened very fast.

 

Sansai’s beam wobbled, trembled back. Trunks, caught in the mad elation of battle, pushed against her weakness, crossing the threshold of Super Saiyan unconsciously. Her beam collapsed, fading to nothing. The full power of his blast overtook her.

 

Trunks cut off the stream of power in confusion, his bewilderment turning to horror as he saw her fall like a stone. Trunks blasted up and caught her, singed and unconscious, but otherwise unharmed. He landed atop one of the plateaus and set her down. Cradling her head in the crook of one arm, he stroked her cheek gently. Her pulse was firm and strong against his fingertips, her breathing regular.

 

“Sansai . . . wake up. Sansai . . .”

 

Her face twitched, then her black eyes opened and met his. Unguarded, he saw the full scope of her emotions. Awe, admiration, a deep tenderness, all underscored with the same violent lust tearing at his innards.

 

“Nice shot. Vegar above, another Super Saiyan . . . you look just like your father, Trunks.” That caught him by surprise. Were those feelings he saw in her eyes for him or his father? The thought disgusted him and he jerked away.

 

“We should go back,” he said coldly, “Mom and Videl will be worried.” He dropped Videl’s name, trying to make her jealous. From what he could see, it worked. She scowled and rose, cracking the stone beneath her feet with careless violence, her tail lashing angrily from side to side.

 

“Very well.”

*~*

Bulma stood on the lawn of Capsule Corp, weeding her small herb garden under an outdoor light and scanning the skies for Trunks and Sansai. The two of them had each contacted her mentally, telling her they were going into the wilderness to train. Intimately familiar with the powerful and unpredictable pyrotechnics that Saiyans attracted, Bulma was grateful that they had sense enough to go elsewhere.

 

Videl had been up, wanting to invite Trunks to dinner with her and her father. Bulma had lied to the girl, telling her that he was gone on a scouting mission and wouldn’t be back until morning. To tell her that Trunks was with Sansai would only fuel the feud between the young woman and Bulma’s Saiyan bodyguard. Two tiny dots of light appeared high in the sky to the west. Bulma smiled and set her basket aside.

 

She sensed the black mood between the two as soon as they landed. Trunks, still in his Super Saiyan form, powered down and greeted her with a distracted kiss on the cheek. Sansai smirked in greeting a little bit grimly, looking scorched around the edges.

 

“Training went well?” she asked. Trunks nodded curtly. Silence.

 

“There’s stew inside. And Kenji helped me rig a TV. I think we have a few old VHS tapes lying around. Maybe we could watch Trunks’ baby videos,” she said teasingly. Trunks chuckled, but staggered a bit, his knees giving way.

 

“What wrong, honey?” Bulma said, immediately concerned. She laid a hand on his back. 

 

“I don’t . . . I don’t feel well,” he muttered, holding his head.

 

“Let me see,” she crooned, framing his face between her hands. His blue eyes were clouded, his skin dry and much too hot. A fever? He’d never been sick a day in his life! Bulma cast a worried glance at Sansai and found her staring up.

 

Up at the moon, which waxed full.

 

“Oh Kami, the moon! I forgot about the moon!” she cried.

 

The words had no more than left her lips than Trunks let out a rippling growl and pushed her aside. The force of the blow sent her careening into the plywood tool shed, rapping her head hard. Ignoring the throbbing pain, she looked at Sansai, praying that she wouldn’t . . . a cry from Trunks snapped her attention. He was writhing on the ground, back arched, taloned hands clawing at the dirt. Bulma staggered toward him, intending to help. A hot, vise-like hand closed on her arm.

 

“Let him be,” she growled, her raspy voice so low and guttural it was almost unrecognizable.

 

Bulma wrung her hands, watching Trunks writhe in the throes of some terrible pain for what seemed like innumerable minutes. Then, with a scream and ripping fabric, Trunks’ tail burst from the base of his spine in an explosion of sinew and blood-soaked fur. With a sob of relief, he passed out.

 

Bulma stared at the chocolate brown tail glistening with blood with a mixture of a scientist’s fascination and a mother’s horror. She remembered vividly when Goku had transformed, and later Gohan when Vegeta and Nappa landed here. Sansai’s hand dropped off her arm and Bulma flew towards her son, checking his vitals and relief sluiced through her. Just asleep.

 

“Will he--” she began.

 

“He will be fine. I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

 

“What do you mean?” Bulma asked. Sansai frowned, tearing her eyes from Trunks’ inert form with some effort. Her eyes were dilated, her nostrils flared convulsively.

 

“The moon and . . . and me. A waxing moon and a full blood Saiyan female? It’s a stroke of luck that this didn’t happen the night we arrived. If it had, I wouldn’t have been able to stop and . . . you would have been a very young grandmother.”

 

Bulma flinched, then noticed how far Sansai was standing from her.

From Trunks.

Her tail lashed back and forth, fine tremors raced through her body, as if convulsing with fever.

 

She smiled grimly.

 

“My blood calls to him, just as his does me. As King Vegeta told you, the moon knows no decency, no control. The trauma of his tail growing back knocked him out. Get him out of the moonlight and he will sleep throughout the night,” Sansai rasped. She turned very slowly, throwing the words over her shoulder, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go reshape some landscape.” Bulma leapt up and grabbed her arm.

 

“Sansai, please, just help me get Trunks inside and we can . . .”

 

Sansai laughed, a throaty chuckle sounding more animal than human.

 

“Bulma, I am going into heat. If I stay,” her eyes drifted back to Trunks as if magnetized and held with a feverish longing, “if I stay, if I so much as touch him, I’ll wake him. I will wake him and we will tear each other apart in the frenzy of mating. I would pull him into madness, just as he is pulling— _tearing_ —at me. He’d kill anyone who got in the way of taking me, even you.”

 

Shaken, Bulma removed her hand from Sansai’s arm.

 

“But I thought you had a few more years until your first heat.”

 

“I should!” snarled Sansai, fists clenched and tension rippling through her shoulders. Her eyes flashing momentarily to a brilliant red, her canines distended. She marshaled the fraying threads of her control with some effort and when she opened her eyes again, they were their normal black.

 

“You know I wish him to be my mate. My body . . . my body thinks that he is mine. He,” she cast another fierce glance at Trunks’ body sprawled amid crushed plants and dirt, “he brought my heat on early.”

 

She sighed, a sound of longsuffering.

 

“How often does your moon become full?”

 

“Once a month,” Bulma replied softly, a shiver creeping down her spine. Every month dealing with this animal compulsion! Kami! Sansai stared incredulously at her.

 

“ _Once a month?_ Oh bloody fucking hell!” she yelled, the last syllable echoing with a soft growl. Her face hardened in determination, the same determination that that served her well in the Ice Clan prison.

 

“I must endure it, then. I’ll find a way. I will see you once the moon sets.”

 

With that, Sansai blasted into the night, leaving Bulma to contemplate what had happened.                 

*~*

Trunks awoke with a pounding headache. He cracked open one eye and found himself facedown on the living room couch with sunlight filtering through unwashed windows. A cool hand brushed the tangled strands of lavender hair from his eyes. He followed the pale arm up to his mom’s face, soft with love. His heart warmed at the sight of it and the mug of gently steaming tea in her hand. His throat was parched.

 

He rolled onto his side and accepted the mug. Sweetened tea slid down his throat in blessed relief, creating a gentle pocket of warmth in his belly. Almost instantly, the tight fist of pain in his head loosened, relaxed. Wrapping his hands around the mug, he noted the caked dirt on his palms, his face, and his clothes. He lifted his eyes to Mom.

 

“What happened last night? I remember coming home . . . then pain,” a shudder ran through him at the memory of hot knives stabbing him repeatedly, into bone, into marrow, liquid fire tearing through flesh and blood . . .

 

“Were we attacked? Is Sansai okay? I remember her there, her voice, and Kami, she smelled so good--”

 

There was no judgment, no disgust or disapproval in his mother’s crystalline blue eyes. Only warm understanding.

 

“She’s fine now, son. Upstairs, sleeping. I don’t really know how to tell you this, but . . .” she blushed. His mother, the genius who invented the time machine, unflinching even in the face of a thousand perils, _blushed_!  

 

“Your tail grew back last night. The combination of the full moon and . . . Sansai made it grow back.”

 

Trunks flinched and craned his neck. Sure enough, a tail lay innocently curled on the cushion behind him. He moved it, with no more thought than it would require him to move his hand or foot. He laughed, twisting and swinging it, the dark brown fur glistening. He dared not touch it, remembering vividly Sansai’s reaction to such attention. A small stirring flickered in his belly at the thought of her retuning the favor. Reason nudged its way into his brain.

 

“Wait, Mom, doesn’t my tail mean that I can, you know, change?” he stuttered. Mom’s mouth firmed into a line.

 

“Yes. But don’t worry, hun. I’ll make something to shield you from the effects of the moon if Sansai doesn’t teach you how to control it.”

 

“Why wouldn’t she teach me?” he asked. Mom smiled bashfully and cleared her throat with a wealth of implied delicacy.

 

“From what I understand, Trunks, the moon will send her into heat.”

 

His lip curled.

 

“I’m guessing it’s not quite like a girl’s period, right?”

 

“No,” Bulma replied primly, “a bit more intense than that, I’m afraid. Your reaction to her made your tail grow back and that same reaction will stir every time the moon is full.”

 

Trunks buried his face in his hands. Kami, it wasn’t bad enough he had erotic dreams of her. Now he had to run the gauntlet of a Saiyan mating frenzy every time there was a damned full moon. How the hell was he supposed to stay sane, much less resist taking her? God of gods, and there was the androids lurking behind every corner!

 

But he couldn’t bear the thought of cutting off his newly grown tail. For the first time in his life, he felt comfortable in his own skin, now fully Saiyan. Besides, the tail was really, really cool. Trunks grinned like an idiot teenager. Yeah, he could learn to live with it.

*~*

“There is someone here to see you, Mrs. Briefs. A Chi-Chi Son,” Videl said, poking her head into the lab.

 

Bulma’s head snapped up in surprise. Chi-Chi? Even before Bulma had left, they hadn’t spoken in weeks. Not since . . . since Gohan died. After that, Chi-Chi just disappeared, either to Kame House or to her little home on Mount Pao. Bulma set down the moon reflector she was working on.

 

“Thanks Videl. Show her into the living room,” Bulma told her. The girl nodded and said, “I’ll make some tea.” A small smile flirted with one corner of her mouth. Videl had been ever-present in the week they’d been home, and Bulma was developing a soft spot for the girl whose gruff first impression had given way to a shy and skittish nature, eager to please and doe-eyed, especially whenever Trunks was nearby.

 

Bulma washed grease from her hands, combed her hair with her fingers, and took a deep breath. As ever, she was never sure what to expect from Chi-Chi. In the early years of her marriage to Goku, the younger woman had always regarded Bulma was a careless neglect and sneaking suspicion. Bulma didn’t bother telling her that the prospect of dating Goku was disgusting. He was a little brother to her, and she a friend and older sister to him, without a shred of romance involved.

 

But when Bulma mated with Vegeta and had Trunks, the entire dynamic of their relationship melted into one of wry, womanly camaraderie. Camaraderie deepened to friendship when they both had lost it all, and their precious sons were left as the world’s lone defenders.

What now, did Chi-Chi want from her? She had her answer when he saw Chi-Chi sitting on Bulma’s sofa, the faded blue cushions still caked with mud from where Trunks had lain.

At least, Bulma thought it was Chi-Chi.

 

The slender young woman sitting primly on the couch had Chi-Chi’s long, silky black hair, black eyes, and impeccable posture. The woman wore Chi-Chi’s clothes, had the flash of bright, intelligent ferocity in her eyes. But she looked . . . Bulma slapped her forehead mentally. Her wish! Anyone who is or will be mated to a Saiyan . . . she was still technically mated to Goku, even though he was dead . . .

 

“Chi-Chi,” Bulma whispered, standing in the doorway like an idiot. Chi-Chi looked up and the lively black eyes narrowed, taking in Bulma’s renewed youth critically.

 

“Hello Bulma. I think you owe me an explanation.”

 

So Bulma told her everything, starting with the genesis of the time machine and ending with her return. She left nothing out, not even Kakkarot’s devotion to Sansai. Chi-Chi had a right to know the truth. The change in her face was hardly perceptible, except to Bulma’s trained eye. The tiniest ripple of pain spread across her pretty, unlined face. Her expression hardened into one of fierce anger and fortitude, eerily reminiscent of Sansai, Bulma thought. Chi-Chi set down her tea carefully and marched outside. Bulma frowned and leapt up after her.

 

“Chi-Chi? Where are you going?” Bulma asked. She recognized the look of an impending tantrum, but there was no explosion of sharp words or so much as an impatient gesture. What would she—

 

Bulma saw Trunks and Sansai sparring in the yard outside, hemmed in by a ring of bystanders that called encouragement, made bets amongst themselves, and watched their fluid, catlike grace with admiration. Bulma caught sight of Videl watching wistfully beside her father, who was making a bet against Sansai for fifty zeni. From this distance, Bulma thought absently, their tails looked more like furry belts, hardly meriting notice beside the flying fists and flashing glances. Chi-Chi stormed out the door and the ring of people jerked at the sound. Trunks turned too, and caught Sansai’s incoming fist almost lazily. She let out a bark of laughter and said, “Good eye, Trunks!”

 

Chi-Chi made a small sound low in her throat, her fists balling at her sides and her shoulders tensing. Bulma suddenly knew what she meant to do, but the other woman shook off her conciliatory hand and ignored her words of protest. Chi-Chi was on a mission.  She stormed forward and the people in her way wisely moved back. Trunks smiled uncertainly in greeting, cupping his fists before him and bowing slightly. Bulma smiled in spite of herself. Her sweet, polite boy. Sansai watched her approach with a cool boredom in her eyes, tinged with irritation for their spar being interrupted.

 

Chi-Chi’s voice was soft and calm, so unlike her when she was angry. More than anything, this made Bulma afraid. Was she so close to snapping?

 

“Are you the one called Sansai?” she asked. Sansai crossed her arms over her chest and eyes narrowed.

 

“I am. Who asks for me?” she asked, still bored, distantly polite.

 

The blow surprised them all. Chi-Chi’s fist shot out and struck Sansai across the face and rang in deafening silence. Bulma noticed though, that out of whatever thin respect Chi-Chi’s friendship to Trunks and Bulma engendered in the Saiyan warrior, she made no move to block the blow, and moved with it so as not to break every bone in Chi-Chi’s hand. She caught the second fist barreling toward her face and held it even as Chi-Chi cursed and struggled. Sansai’s face was as dark and dangerous as a thunderstorm, her eyes flashing.

 

“Careful. I could kill you without a thought.” She released Chi-Chi’s fist and the woman rubbed it resentfully, eyeing the Saiyan with open hatred.

 

“You can try!” Chi-Chi spat, and attacked. Abruptly, Bulma remembered Chi-Chi’s martial arts training. It was how she had met Goku, and married him after the martial arts tournament. She was rusty, Bulma could see that much. More than grudging respect for her steely fearlessness, Bulma was surprised Sansai indulged her, slowing her superhuman speed and reflexes, blocking each of Chi-Chi’s attacks, but making no move to return them.

 

Watching the two of them fight, the low murmur of conversation started up again and money changed hands. Trunks walked to her side and leaned down, not taking his eyes from the whirling combatants. With easy affection, he threaded her arm through his. Bulma’s heart swelled with joy and she drank in the scent of his sweat, and taut warmth of his arm.

 

“Hey Mom, what’s going on? Why is Mrs. Son attacking Sansai?”

 

Bulma chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully. Best go with hard truth.

 

“Remember how I told you that back on Planet Vegeta, Kakkarot had a bit of a crush on Sansai?”

_The understatement of the century, Bulma girl,_ some wry part of her mind reminded her. She glanced up at him and caught a deep frown marring his handsome face, felt slight tightening of his forearm beneath her fingers.

 

“No Mom, I don’t remember you telling me that,” he said with some irritation. Bulma giggled nervously, patting his arm.

 

“Must have slipped my mind. Anyway, I told Chi-Chi and . . . and well, she went berserk, it seems.” Chi-Chi certainly looked a bit mad, her face flushed in anger, spitting out such a wide vocabulary of curse words that Bulma’s ears burned. _I didn’t think Chi-Chi_ knew _those words . . ._

 

“Did she like him back?” Trunks demanded, turning to face her fully.

 

“Who?” Bulma said in mock innocence, testing the waters.

 

“Sansai!” Trunks said loudly, leaning toward her eagerly. Bulma, her eyes still on the fight, saw Sansai jerk at the mention of her name and she caught Chi-Chi’s knee with her chin. The expression of shock and offended surprise was priceless. Bulma smothered a giggle. She felt the hot stab of Trunks’ blue gaze on her and turned.

 

“No, Trunks. Don’t tie your tail in a knot. It was completely unrequited. I told Chi-Chi that but . . .” 

 

The tension seeped out of Trunks and he turned to look at Sansai and Chi-Chi, face set in an enigmatic scowl, arms crossed and the tip of his tail twitching pensively. It was a perfect mimicry of his father, and Bulma opened her mouth to tell him so when a shrill cry rent the air. She turned to find Sansai pinning Chi-Chi to the ground much like she had Nappa the first day they met. There was no pressure exerted by Sansai’s dusty bare foot set squarely on Chi-Chi’s chest, but it was, as Bulma knew, simply immovable, even to a human of Chi-Chi’s strength and fortitude. Despite the truth of this, Chi-Chi was hissing and spitting like a wildcat in defiance.

 

“Get off me! Let me _go_!” she cried, digging her fingernails into Sansai’s foot. She only laughed, but not unkindly.

 

“I indulged you for your warrior’s spirit, human, and for whatever friendship you bear to Trunks and Bulma. Don’t humiliate yourself in defeat,” Sansai said calmly, the joy of the fight dancing her eyes. Thrashing futilely, Chi-Chi’s voice quavered, choked on more curse words and tears streamed down her cheeks and pattered in the dirt.

 

“He’s mine! Hear me? Goku . . . oh my Goku . . .” she said brokenly, weeping. Discreetly, Trunks shooed away the crowd and they left quickly enough, perplexed. Bulma watched Sansai’s face soften with understanding. She took her foot from Chi-Chi’s chest and knelt.

 

“Goku . . . that is Kakkarot, yes? I never aimed to make him mine. He l--loved me, yes, but this was through no fault of mine,” she said softly, offering a hand to help her up. Chi-Chi brushed it aside and rose, brushing the dirt from her clothes with perfect dignity. Without so much as a word or glance at Sansai, Chi-Chi stormed off. As she passed Bulma she said, “When you go back—back to the world she came from, I’m going with you.”

*~*


	4. Possesion

A month with his mother home and it was as if she never left. A month with Sansai’s frustrating presence deviling his waking and sleeping hours until Trunks wondered how he could ever have considered another woman. She filled his senses, and the ache in his chest told him it was more than adolescent hormones that drew him to her. She was beautiful and strong, there was no doubt of that, but there were softer layers under the Saiyan creed of self-sufficiency, bruised layers over a kind and deep-feeling heart. He caught glimpses of it watching her with his mom. There was an easy rapport between them, one of shared hardship and heartfelt closeness.

 

There was very little softness in her for him, he thought sulkily. She had begun teaching him Saiyago and refused to speak anything else for the required hour, berating him for butchered grammar and botched pronunciation. They beat each other’s faces in on a daily basis and Trunks could not ignore the sexual tension radiating between them, pulsing like a heartbeat, hot, throbbing, persistent. From the balcony, he looked up at the swollen white orb on horizon, waiting patiently for earth to turn from the setting sun and face it. He had watched the moon wane, disappear, then begin to wax full again with dread. His eyes fell on his mother’s reflector collar dubiously. If the moon’s pull was as strong as they said, would this little piece of metal stop him? It was two days away . . .  

 

He turned to face her, for he had learned the tread of her step as well as the sound of her voice and the scent of her hair. Her black eyes flashed in excitement.

 

“Your mother’s radio said that the androids are nearby. Will we fight them?” she asked. Trunks frowned, the familiar mix of rage and fear rising in his throat. He set down the reflector on the balcony’s wide, sun warmed rail and crossed his arms.

 

“You haven’t transformed yet. Facing them is risky,” he said. He recognized the flash of severe stubbornness streak like a comet across her face, fading as quickly as it came. Her face smoothed and Trunks swore inwardly. There were moments when she was as hard to read as the book she had given him, written in a language he didn’t yet fully understand. Continuing the analogy, he wondered if there was a scouter chip to unlock the secrets of her soul like the chip that helped him read Saiyago.

 

“Maybe facing them is the stimulus I need. The transformation is as much a spiritual anguish as it is an increase in power. We cannot know for sure until we try.”

 

The logic of her words was sound, and in the hot-blooded, Saiyan corners of his heart, he longed to fight beside her in battle, to watch the love of it sing through her.

 

“All right. We’ll try. But at the first sign of trouble, we retreat, got it?” he said, wagging his finger like an adult cautioning a child on eating too many sweets. And, like a child, Sansai nodded impatiently and promised obedience. She powered up to fly and Trunks smiled.

 

“Wearing that into battle, are you?” he said, flicking his gaze over her lithe form clothed in a bleach-stained t-shirt and sweat pants several sizes too large for her dotted with holes. Her tail seemed to be the only thing holding her pants up. Sansai’s first foray into laundry hadn’t turned out well and while Trunks quite liked the image of her naked from the waist down in the middle of battle, it wouldn’t do for her dignity. She powered down with a sheepish smile.

 

“No, I suppose not. I’ll meet you on the roof in five minutes.”

 

Precisely five minutes later, Sansai returned in her full battle dress: battlesuit, chestplate, and boots with her hair forced back into a ponytail, with Trunks’ mother in tow.

 

“Better for fighting,” Trunks complimented, nodding towards Sansai’s change in attire. She lifted a brow at his baggy pants and muscle shirt, but said nothing.

 

“Will you not tie your hair, Trunks?” she asked, motioning to the fringe of lavender hair that ended at his chin. Mom had taken a liberal interpretation of ‘trim.’

 

“Won’t need to,” he replied and stepped over the edge to Super Saiyan. Admiration shone in her eyes.

 

“I never get tired of seeing that.” Mom said. Trunks’ heart softened at the barely detectable note of trembling in her voice. He embraced her.

 

“Don’t worry Mom. I’ll come home.”

 

Sansai flung her arms around Bulma, then pulled back just as hastily, awkward still with displays of affection.

 

“We both will, Bulma. In one piece. Keep that—what is it called?—pizza you and Videl cooked for us warm. It smells wonderful.” Turning to him, she said, “Come on, let’s kick some android ass.”

 

 

 

 

They flew north and found them shopping, of all things. 18 was piling clothes from what used to be a high-rise department store into the backseat of a stolen air car. 17, leaning against the driver’s door, was playing with the gun from his hip holster. Apparently mass murder was losing its edge.

Sansai didn’t yell, didn’t call out, only powered up and knocked 18 to the ground with one solid kick. Trunks barreled in after her, hurling a golden orb from over his head into 17’s face. They were both up moments later, 18 looking royally pissed. Trunks smiled. 17 rose and brushed the soot from his face blankly. Upon seeing Trunks, the corner of his mouth tipped up.

 

“Look at that 18. Our friend has come out to play again. And he even brought his girlfriend along.” His gaze flitted along Sansai’s form.

 

“You’re feisty. I like that in a girl,” he said smoothly. A growl tore from Trunks’ throat.

 

“Watch your mouth, tin can.”

 

The curled corner tilted into a sneer.

 

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll fight you for her. You win, you die. You lose, you die. What’s it gonna be, Blondie?” 17’s attention was so focused on Trunks that he didn’t see Sansai until her fist sent him careening across the street. Her tail lashing back and forth cockily, she said, “I don’t take kindly to being bartered over like a piece of meat.”

 

Trunks leapt forward, intercepting 18’s fist before it hit Sansai.

 

“Don’t like the scars I gave you a while back? Why don’t I take your arm like I did your friend’s?” she hissed, vacant blue eyes flashing a hellish red for an instant.

 

“ _You’re_ the one who scarred him? You _bitch_!” Sansai screamed. With a cry of power, she leapt at 18. 17 excavated himself from the crater Sansai had thrown him into and lunged to his sister’s defense. Trunks intercepted and the two pairs traded furious combinations, wheeling madly above and between buildings, the echoes of their blows rumbling like thunder. His blood pounded through his veins and the fear that had always lurked in his belly shouted out, channeling into energy and strength. With Sansai beside him, Trunks felt like he could conquer the world. As they fought, Trunks tried to keep some of his attention on her.

And got a hard marble elbow to the face for his trouble. His lip stung, he tasted blood.

He returned his focus to 18, drawing his sword and cutting slashing patterns to gain reach and a few seconds of breathing time.

 

Every now and then, there was a soft grunt or moan from the other pair as a blow landed, and he glanced over to find her bleeding and panting. While she was strong and experienced, she wasn’t as fast or as strong as a Super Saiyan. But as desperately as he wanted to throw her behind him and protect her, he knew for a fact her hot-blooded Saiyan nature would only curse him for his consideration. He could defend her as a comrade and equal, but to protect her as if she were a human woman would only be insulting.

 

After weeks of sparring, they knew each other’s fighting styles intimately, and fought well together, actually holding their own. Trunks remembered all the fumbling and clumsiness of the disastrous attempt at the carnival and smiled grimly. If he had had Sansai’s experience, Gohan wouldn’t have lost his arm and would probably still be alive. A thrill of excitement ran through him, a fierce longing for a revenge that at last felt tangible. With her, he could do it. They could do it, together. She needed only to transform.

 

“Hey 18,” 17 said as they paused for half a breath.

 

“What is it?” she snapped tetchily, no doubt put out that Sansai had cold cocked her while she was playing with her clothes. Trunks grinned in savage pleasure at the notion. They descended to stand on a rooftop, the wind whistling in their ears, tugging at clothes and hair with cool, soothing fingers. 

 

“How ‘bout we split? It’s past our bedtime, after all,” he waved a hand and Trunks was suddenly aware that night had fallen. They had been fighting for a solid two hours. Trunks edged closer to Sansai, unsure of what the two artificial humans were thinking. Never before had they simply left with Trunks still whole.

 

“No way,” 18 snapped, balling her fists, “this guy has insulted me for the last time. Him and his little bitch.” 

 

Sansai made a rude hand gesture and 18 let out a cry of rage. But 17 _restrained_ her. Trunks sheathed his sword and watched, his body strung as taut as a bowstring.

 

 _Be ready. I don’t know what the hell they’re trying to pull,_ he whispered to her mentally.

 

She smiled grimly.

_Give me five minutes with the blonde and we won’t need to worry about it._

 17 was speaking to his sister in a low conversational tone, one Trunks’ Saiyan hearing just caught.

 

“Listen sis, this is the most fun I’ve had in weeks. None of the other insects on this hellhole can come close. This guy is fun. His little girlfriend too. Let’s let them live for now. You know, save some of the fun for later.” 18’s posture relaxed, her face melting into bland perfection.

 

“All right. I’m in a charitable mood. I’ll let the two of you live. But cross me again, and you will learn just how mean I can be.”

 

With that, the two hopped in their air car and flew off, gaily colored shopping bags snapping in the wind. Trunks stared after them for a long moment, shocked by this abrupt turn of events. Then joy was sweeping like a rushing river through him and he turned toward Sansai and swept her off her feet, twirling her in circles over his head. Her laughter, rich and warm, bubbled out and seemed to hang in the air, reflecting prisms of light.

 

“We did it, Sansai! We did it! We fought them and . . . and lived! You were amazing. Once you’re a Super Saiyan, we’ll kill ‘em for sure!” Trunks yelled, giddy in his joy. It was then that he noticed how banged up she was. A cut under her left eye wept blood freely, bruises peppered her arms and shoulders and her face looked swollen and tender. He set her down carefully.

 

“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

 

She waved off his concern with a beaming smile, all her straight white teeth gleaming.

 

“I’m fine. It was a thrill, and a good battle. You were magnificent, Trunks. _E rei-va kur Thanagara_.”

 

“‘A prince of gods?’ Hardly. But high praise nonetheless. Here. I always keep one of these in my gear.” He tossed her a Senzu. She caught it and inspected it, prodding it cautiously with one callused fingertip.

 

“What is it?” she asked.

 

“It’s called a Senzu bean. It will heal you and restore your energy. Go ahead. Eat it.”

 

She looked down at the bean, then back up at him. Then, like a miracle, the frown cleared from her face and she smiled.

 

“Here. You fought just as hard as I. Besides, your nose is bleeding. We will share this magic bean of yours.” Delicately, she bit it in half and held out one half to him. In a rare playful mood, Trunks bent and took the bean from her fingers with his teeth, his lips sliding over the tips of her fingers. The Senzu was sour on his tongue, but the look on Sansai’s face as he ate from her hand in the same instant she was healed was well worth it. Again, that humming tension rang between them and heat curled in his belly. His tail twitched, unwinding from his waist of its own will. Trunks shook himself, drawing back from the sweet depths of her eyes.

 

“Come on. I’ll bet Mom is worried sick.”

 

 

 

 

His life was a strange mix of the apocalyptic and the mundane, he mused. He had never heard of a stranger sort of victory party, pizza and a movie after battling cyborgs. He, Sansai, Mom, and Videl ate and drank together amid laughter and easy talk. The feud between Sansai and Videl seemed to have calmed, or on a temporary truce. The movie was old, one of a handful VHS tapes left in the world, Trunks imagined. He sat on the floor leaning against the couch with Videl and Sansai curled behind him. Mom pled tiredness after a long day in the lab and shuffled upstairs, stifling a yawn and Trunks was alone with the two women.

 

The room was dark, the small TV washing them in its flashing colors. The door to the balcony stood open, letting in faint moonlight and a soft breeze. He felt the moon’s seductive tug, hyper-aware of Sansai’s soft breathing and cloying scent, like lightning and something rich and musky, like sage. Trunks flinched as he felt the press of Videl’s torso against his shoulders. Her slender arm shot out and her breathing was soft and warm against the sensitive shell of his ear. What the hell was she doing? She smelled sweet and flowery, comfortable and familiar, he thought.

 

“Will you hand me my water, Trunks? I can’t reach.” Videl said softly, pointing to the water bottle just beyond her fingertips.

 

“Sure Videl,” he said, leaning forward and snagging the bottle. Training his eyes on the movie, he handed it back to her. She accepted it and drank. Wiping the moisture from her lips, she said, “So Pop says there was a cave-in on the lower level yesterday.” Trunks’ ears perked up. Some of the lowest levels, many miles down, were deemed structurally unsound in the wake of constant tectonic assault and all the refugees were forbidden to travel there. He craned his head, giving her his full attention.

 

“And how would he know that? He went down there, didn’t he? After I expressly told him not to. Videl--”

 

“No, Kenji told him. He said he heard the rumbles last night after lights out. Shouldn’t we check down there—to see if anyone is trapped?”

 

“We sent sweeps weeks ago,” Trunks muttered. Videl’s pale blue eyes met his.

 

“Please?” she asked softly. The tenderness in his heart bloomed in warm, velvet petals. Typical Videl, always wanting to help.

 

“All right, Videl,” he said with a smile, “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

 

They settled back into silence, returning their attention to the movie. Furtively, Trunks cut a glance at Sansai and found her sound asleep, curled up like a cat on the cushion. When credits rolled, Trunks escorted Videl to the lift. Shifting uncertainly, Videl stood on her tiptoes and snatched a quick kiss on his cheek. Reflexively, his hands cupped her waist to steady her. Warning bells rang in his head. Videl still felt something for him, deeper than friendship.

 

“Videl . . .” he began.

 

“Goodnight, Trunks,” she interrupted, leaping nimbly from his grasp and disappearing down. Trunks shrugged and padded back into the living room. He sat down and the jar of cushion and his loudly expelled sigh woke Sansai, her black eyes snapped open, her body tensing like a doe poised to flee.

 

“Sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

Tension seeped from her and she smiled sleepily. An arrow pierced his chest at the sight of her, lodging deep in his heart. Sansai yawned, her face abstract as she glanced at the TV.

 

“I like your movies and the hard music you play in the mornings. What is it called?”

 

“Rock,” Trunks replied.

 

“Rock,” she repeated, “I like the speed and anger of it. Very Saiyan. We have music on Planet Vegeta, but only the old songs, the battle chants of our forefathers. As for movies . . . we have no great works of cinema or literature. Up until very recently, we were an illiterate race. We told our stories through song and through pictures. Saiyan carvers are some of the best in the galaxy: stone, wood, earth, you name it. The palace walls are carved with tales from its beginnings until now. I imagine soon they will carve of your battle here, Trunks: the Defeat of the Androids.” She yawned again, blinking slowly. Trunks offered a reluctant smile.

 

“How was it that you came to know my father?” he asked, desperate for details about her life. Trunks saw the flash of affection backlit in her eyes and felt a moment’s doubt. Did she . . .?

 

“My parents were killed defending Planet Vegeta from Frieza. I was born as a second class soldier, but I was also strong and your father chose me and my cousin to be a part of his squad. I was trained as an Elite,” another yawn, “even though I wore a second class’s armor.” Sleepily, she touched the black chestplate she wore.

 

Trunks’ heart tightened. If not hard, then her life must have been lonely. At least Trunks had his mother, and Gohan besides . . . but why did her voice catch when she mentioned her cousin? There were so many twists and turns in her. He wanted to unravel them all. He opened his mouth to ask another question and found her asleep. Trunks smiled and munched idly on a piece of cold pizza. He turned off the TV, the lights, closed the doors, and began to spread a blanket over Sansai. His eyes fell on the chestplate, the awkward angle on her legs.

 

“That can’t be comfortable,” he murmured. Carefully, he gathered her in his arms, wrapping the blanket around her. He froze as she stirred. Her cheek nuzzled his chest, a soft smile touching her lips. The sweetness of the gesture warmed him down to his toes. He levitated up the stairs to the room his mom had given her. She nuzzled his chest again, her tail winding around his wrist. His throat tightened in a dreadful mixture of tenderness and burning hunger. He could feel the moon urging at him, burning away his restraint . . .

 

“Vegeta . . .” she slurred. Trunks hissed in a breath as if struck. ‘ _Vegeta?!?!_ ’  She would whisper his father’s name? As gently as he could manage, Trunks released her, storming down the stairs into the sanctuary of the G.R.

Did she want him because of the resemblance to his father? The thought sickened him.

 

“Damn you, Sansai. Damn you,” he swore.

*~*

Whether it was the telling of her story or her own homesickness, Sansai dreamed of home. One memory of home in particular. She was ten, and for the first time, Prince Vegeta allowed her and Broly to sit with him and his squad as they discussed strategy and, as the hours passed and wine flowed, tales of battle. Sansai sat stiffly at the prince’s side, where he had bade her to sit, eyes darting to and fro, trying to absorb every detail. Conversation ebbed and flowed naturally around her, with the prince at its epicenter. He pulled their attention like gravity, and, with Sansai’s eyes glazed with unquestioning hero-worship, shaped with world with his movements of his hands.

 

Sensing her stare, Prince Vegeta’s intense black eyes bore into hers. Pride stiffened her spine and tilted her chin, even as her heart trembled with near-religious awe. Surely not even Vegar, Planet Vegeta’s celestial guardian, had the strength or sheer magnetism of Prince Vegeta, the Legendary reborn! The corner of Prince Vegeta’s mouth twitched, but into a smile or frown, the expression faded before she could decipher it. Then he looked away and Sansai felt as if she had passed some unspoken test.

                    

Prince Vegeta leaned back on the silk cushions and chewed thoughtfully on honeyed _y’far_ , brow furrowed as he listened to the Seer speak in his low, mellow voice. Her eyelids grew heavy, the wavering control she exerted on her limbs was ebbing away . . . the strange, prickling sensation of being watched woke her. She snapped up with a small sound. Across the table, Broly’s eyes danced in smug amusement, coolly superior at seventeen.

 

“Are we boring you, daughter of Aspar?” the prince’s rough, sardonic voice sliced through her like a knife. Robbed of speech in her shock, she shook her head vehemently. The group, Broly included, laughed at her expense, and her face burned. In her mortification, she couldn’t detect the friendly notes to the sound, nor that their smiles were without rancor.

 

“Come on, Vegeta, she’s only a cub. I’m a bit tired myself!” Bardock’s younger son, Kakkarot said. She rocked up to her knees, glaring at the older warrior. How dare he mock her!

 

“I’m no cub! I’m ten standard years, nearly old enough to--”

 

Kakkarot held up his hands, cutting off her tirade with a high, boyish giggle. He diffused her anger with some silly joke, and diverted the attention from her. Kakkarot had none of his father’s poise, Sansai decided, or his brother’s strong and steady presence. In truth, even then, Kakkarot had baffled her.

 

Despite her will, despite her dignity, her body would not be denied. She slipped off to sleep, hands fisted in the prince’s cape. A voice whispered on the edges of her consciousness.

 

“Lazy brat,” the prince grumbled, “now she’s all knotted up in my cape.” The sensation of being lifted, cradled in strong arms. Feeling warm and safe, Sansai molded herself to the broad expanse of his chest, nuzzling like a needy cub. Blearily, Sansai wondered if the prince would dump her in her cot in the barracks.

 

“Sentimental youngling,” he muttered.

 

Sleep wrapped her in a warm embrace and drifted off on soft clouds. Sunlight woke her. She sat up with a start, finding herself tangled in the prince’s red cape, lying on his massive bed. Her eyes were dazzled with the colors and textures, the sheer grandeur and beauty of his own chamber. He sat at the table a few steps from the bed with his back to her, eating his morning meal.

 

“It’s about time you woke, little leech. If you pursued your training as tenaciously as you clung to my cape, you’d be the fiercest of warriors,” he called over his shoulder. 

 

“Sire.” Sansai whispered, unsure of how to react. The prince had carried her in his own arms, allowed her to sleep on his bed and she, a second class! She stumbled out of bed, mortified color blazing on her cheeks. Oh, she couldn’t bear the thought of his displeasure! He continued his meal, not deigning her a glance and her heart pounded, even as her stomach let out a long and embarrassingly loud growl at the smell of such good food. Chuckling, he finally looked at her. Relief sluiced through her. He didn’t look angry, or even annoyed. Instead, there was a glimmer of . . . of something. The same look she saw in Uncle when he looked at Broly.

 

“I suppose I’ll have to feed you too, hm?”

 

When she didn’t speak, he chucked her chin.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Y—yes, Sire. I would . . . I would like that very much,” she stammered. Vegeta smirked.

 

“Well I can’t fault Paragus on your manners. Sit. Eat. But,” his face hardened and he pointed a finger at her.

 

“If you tell anyone about this, I’ll snap your head from your shoulders. Got it?”

 

“I swear on my life, Sire!” Sansai said, climbing into the chair beside him.

 

 

 

 

Sansai woke from the dream half expecting to awake in Vegeta’s bedchamber as she had eight years ago, or on her pallet in her tiny dwelling in the palace. It was disorienting to find the clean, simple furnishings of Bulma’s guest room, with Trunks’ rich, masculine scent hanging in the air. Her heart tightened. He had carried her to her bed as his father had years ago. Gods, she was mad for him. Worse than the little human girl Videl who grew coy and blushing in his presence.

 

The full moon would rise soon, and she had to disappear into the wilds to keep herself away from Trunks. There was a part of her heart that felt chained by the were-nature of her race. What was in her blood compelled her to throw herself on a man she barely knew because his blood sang to her a siren’s song. More than an affront to her powers of self-control, it was embarrassing. But still, the longing lurked, a feral lust curled like a fist around her innards.

 

Sansai sighed and rose. Her back was stiff from sleeping in her armor, and she stretched to loosen the taut muscles. She padded into the bathroom, tossing aside articles of clothing as she went. The heat and pounding pressure of the shower relaxed her and she purred in delight. Drying herself with her power, she wiped the steam from the mirror and inspected her face. That bean of Trunks’ had done its job, her body showed no evidence of the beating yesterday. _Maybe we can take some back with us,_ she thought, _and Bulma can make them grow on Planet Vegeta._

 

“Sansai! Breakfast!” Bulma’s called up the stairs. Out of respect for each other’s privacy, they kept telepathic communication to a minimum, saving it for situations of great urgency or delicacy. She reached her consciousness out and found Bulma and Trunks below in the kitchen. She reached farther until she plucked out the girl’s ki from the sea of humanity below. She would not be eating with them.

 

Sansai dressed in her casual Saiyan attire of loose black pants and red tank top and bounded down the stairs with an eagerness she could not hide. Not for the meal Bulma had made or her friend’s company, although she enjoyed them both. But because Trunks would be there, with his silky hair wet and curling at the temples from his morning shower, with the music she liked, the rock, she corrected herself, playing in the background. His eyes, as blue as Earth’s boundless sky, were still a bit sleepy around the edges, and his smile warm and sweet.

But he did not greet her this morning.

 

He didn’t even look up as she entered, but kept his eyes on his plate of eggs, bacon and a runny grain mixture Bulma called grits. Cold animosity chilled the air around him and her step faltered. She cut a glance to Bulma and found her glaring at the back of her son’s head with an expression of frowning disapproval as she pulled a plate of biscuits out of the oven. Gingerly, Sansai took her seat and dished out portions of food onto her plate.

 

“Good morning, Trunks,” she offered softly, hoping that perhaps his anger was something to be placated with politeness. His eyes flashed up, blazed into hers. Anger smoldered, along with . . . disgust? It was revulsion she saw in his eyes, a seething distaste that shocked her, streaking across her heart like a whiplash. Stunned, she dropped her gaze to hide the rush of tears. Questions whizzed through her brain at maddening speed. The silence was deafening. He ate quickly and left the table without so much as word to either of them. Bulma blew out a breath.

 

“What the hell was that about? Did you two have an argument?” she asked gently, sipping her tea. Sansai’s eyes burned. She swallowed hard.

 

“I—I don’t know. I . . . we were fine last night . . .” she choked, the slightest treble coloring her voice. The look of disgust and anger had rattled her. Against her will, a tear leaked from the corner of her eye.

 

“Oh honey,” Bulma whispered gently. She rose from her seat and wrapped her arms around Sansai’s shoulders. While she was grateful for the offer of comfort, drawing attention to what Saiyans considered weakness galled her pride. She disentangled herself from the embrace and rose, offering Bulma a grim smile.

 

“Where were we on that reflector of yours, Bulma?”

*~*

Trunks stormed through the day in a bleak mood. The name that slipped from Sansai’s lips last night—his _father’s_ name—haunted him. Were the two of them lovers? Or did Sansai wish they were? She said that class boundaries were rigid; it was rare to mate outside your class. These thoughts led him to darker contemplations. Was Sansai attracted to him only for the resemblance between himself and his father? Was her loyalty borne of some twisted obsession?

Gods, he could hate her for it.

He hated the look of shocked surprise on her face this morning, the brief gleam of tears that was like a lance to his heart. How dare she act the innocent?

 

His violent feelings came to a head that night when she approached him for their prescribed hour of Saiyago. Under normal circumstances, he enjoyed this time as he grew more proficient by the day and the lessons were often rich with the history of the Saiyan people and stories from Sansai’s life. In rough syllables of Saiyago, with her voice earthy and sexy, she recited a fragment of poetry and asked his opinion. It probed the wound and blew on the embers of his anger, to have her eyes so deep and dark, to have her so tantalizingly close and beyond his reach. A small voice in his head acknowledged the moon’s role in his temper. Trunks leapt to his feet.

 

“Fuck this,” he snapped, with a contemptuous flick of chin, “and fuck you.”       

 

The innocence sharpened to fury, knives of obsidian flashing in the low light. She stood with what he took as a sinuous, teasing grace, drawing his gaze to all that made her a woman. 

 

“What the hell is wrong with you? What have I done to offend you now?” she growled, her voice a low, smoky timbre that sent a betraying flash of heat through his body. His lip curled in a sneer.

 

“Nothing. But tell me, just how good a servant are you to my father? Would you do _anything_ for him?”

 

Her brow furrowed.

 

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

 

His temper snapped. He grabbed her upper arm with a rolling growl. Her skin was fever hot and so soft . . . her scent wormed its way into his nostrils, filling his brain with her fragrance. His Saiyan blood stirred.

 

“Don’t play games with me, Sansai. Are you fucking him?” Trunks growled, his voice far lower than normal.  She snarled, tearing away from him. Her eyes all but glowed in the darkness, black rimmed with feral red.

 

“Your father is mated to your mother, you moron! Why would he want me to warm his bed?”

 

“So you wish he was unattached?” he demanded suspiciously. Fury seethed in her eyes, tempered now by confusion.

 

“What brought this on, Trunks? Why do you care?” she asked coolly, dark eyes probing. Trunks felt a moment’s doubt, then the feverish fury returned with a vengeance. 

 

“Don’t change the subject!” he snapped. Her face hardened.

 

“No, you brainless half-breed! I don’t want to fuck your father! If you must know, he’s one the closest things I have to a father. Now get out of my way, I have things to do.” She moved to step past him. Her words filled him with a potent and bewildering mixture of shame and relief. He had been punishing her for her love and loyalty. But moon-madness was hard to shake off, no matter how the little rational voice in his head screamed. His blood was hot and livid, muscles buzzing with energy. Plus, arguing with Sansai had given him one hell of a hard-on.

 

Growling, he thrust out an arm to bar her passing.

 

“Spar with me. I need to beat the hell out of something.”

 

The corner of her mouth curled in fierce amusement.

 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, little prince. I just might kill you,” she said, her voice deadly soft. He barked out a laugh.

 

“I’d like to see you try, girlie.”

*~*

Bulma saw the twinkling lights of their ki as they flew off under a nearly full moon, and took a sip of coffee. She sent a brief prayer for the safety of the greater population, as well as her son and Sansai. _The reflectors should stave off the more basic effects of the moon . . ._ she thought. Her eyes fell on the reflector collars, undonned, lying on the sill in a pocket of milky light.

 

“Shit,” she swore with heartfelt sincerity.

*~*

They set down in a clearing, deep within the mountain wilds where no soul lived. High, swift-moving clouds blocked the moonlight. Sansai leapt at him and all thought was chased away in the savage dance of battle. They used no ki, but fought with the intimacy of bare knuckles and feet. The anger filled his limbs with strength, his blood raced through his veins, irrational blazing joy filling him.

Her forceful punch sent him through a redwood tree.

 

He flew after her, and the two of them spun dizzily through the air, flinging blows and curses with increasing clumsiness. He seized her by the arms and flung her towards earth, blasting after her with a blaze of heat.  They crashed into the ground in a tangle of limbs, rolling over and over, punching and clawing at each other.

 

Heat pumped through his body, sweat slicked his skin, a mad fever bubbled through his blood. He pinned her to the ground with a growl, grinding his hips into the cradle of hers. She clouted him hard in the temple, rolling astride him. She bent, took his lower lip between her teeth and nipped at it. The sensation lit something wild and hot inside him, and his fingers wrapped around her tail. Her hot breath fluttered over his face as she cried out, raw and sweet. Breathlessly, she grabbed his tail and he moaned as pleasure slid up his spine like flaming velvet. He writhed up toward her, conceding the advantage.

Her fingers danced along the heaving muscles of his chest, greedily seeking. Knotting around the collar, she tore off his shirt as if it was paper.

 

Lust destroyed reason, desire melted quick and hot in his belly. In that moment, he knew he would die if he didn’t have her.

If he didn’t take her and mark her as his own with the brand of flesh. They struggled against one another for one brief, panting moment, and then she was beneath him, hot and alive and deliciously female. Her hair, her scent, the textures of silky skin over sleek muscle roused a passion in his blood that overtook him in its crimson tide. He didn’t want to stop. He couldn’t stop.

 

Her thighs spread wide, Trunks lay between them, face buried in the cradle of her shoulder, tasting the tang of sweat and feeling the strands of her hair tickle his face. Their tails twined together, sending gentle pulses of pleasure arching up his spine. He ground against her with increasing urgency, his manhood pulsing. Tension wound her body taut, and she writhed against him, but in offering or an attempt to throw him off, he wasn’t sure.

Nor did he care.

Trunks reached between them and pushed aside their clothes. He thrust into her without so much as a preemptory caress. Her cry was lost in his, hers of pain, his of intense pleasure.

_Oh gods._

So hot, so tight . . .

 

Her hands fisted in his hair and, fearing she would push him away and rob him of this beautiful pleasure, he reared up and grabbed her wrists, pinning her to the ground, mastering her with his superior strength and weight. He saw the moon reflected in her wide, darkfire eyes and lost himself. His eyes locked with hers, he thrust, deep and hard. Again and again, he sheathed himself within her scorching heat, that tight internal clasp. Together they struggled, spiraling higher and higher.

 

Burying his face in her neck, he set his lips to the hammering pulsebeat, feeling her body gather, tighten . . . with a cry she arched to him, her muscles spasming rhythmically around him. He came in almost the same instant, pleasure exploding like a sunburst in the back of his brain as his hot seed bathed her womb. She rose up and bit his neck, lapping his blood. The urge to bite her back was nearly undeniable. His teeth grazed her neck, a crushing press of feeling whispered in Sansai’s voice, begging him to bite, to drink, to dissolve into her.

 

But the truth of what he had done was a hammer blow to his heart, shattering him into a million pieces, even as his body pulsed in satiation. He had taken her without any care or thought to any pleasure other than his own. He had pinned her to the ground and taken her, thrusting like an animal in the dirt.

 

Guilt choked him and he released his hold on her wrists, reddish purple bruises blooming on her skin. He removed himself from her and readjusted their clothes. Trunks kept his face pressed to her shoulder, unable to bear the accusation he knew would be in her eyes. This wasn’t how he wanted their first time together to be. He wanted romance, candlelight, gentleness. Not this brutal, animal claiming.

Gods, he hadn’t even kissed her. He licked his lips, tasting the dew of glistening sweat on her body.

                                                        

“This was a mistake,” he said. A fine ripple ran through her. Anguish smote him like a blow, a black pain that bubbled from the deepest wells of the soul. Was it . . . was it coming from Sansai? 

 

“A mistake,” she repeated her voice hoarse. Trunks mustered his courage and rose on his elbows to look at her. Her face was frozen in a mask, hiding all emotion except anger which shone bright and hot in her eyes.

 

“Get off of me,” she commanded.

 

“Sansai . . .” he said.

 

“Get off me!” she howled, shoving him fifteen feet into the air. He flew down, grabbed her arm as she began to fly off.

 

“Sansai, please, let me explain. I didn’t want--” the right hook caught him in the jaw. Holding his sore cheek, he saw a flash of raw pain ripple across her face, the echoes of it resounding in his brain. Had the moon heightened his psychic sensitivity? She clutched her head as if to block the sound of a screaming voice, staggering away from him on unsteady feet. He reached out to touch her, but she shied away.

 

“Just leave me alone!” she screamed, and blasted off into the night.

*~*

She couldn’t stop the trembling of her limbs. A tight fist, poised to fly, pressed against her breastbone, all her power and anguish contained within that hard knot. She grit her teeth as she flew, ignoring the spike of pain being riven into the back of her head every wobbly inch she flew away from him. Sansai flew blindly, until her strength gave out and she crashed to the ground on the shore of a large lake in the center of a forest, fingers of mist dancing along the cool, black surface.

 

She curled in the shade of a rock, knowing if the moon shone upon her, the frayed remains of her will would not hold. The night was cool, but fever still raged, making her eyes burn and her skin glisten with sweat.  Sansai shuddered at the memory of Trunks’ hands on her, the potent mixture of pain and pleasure as he thrust where no man had been before him. Then, as they lay tangled together in boneless satisfaction, he had rejected her and her bond, shoving away the tendrils of thought that would have fused them into One.

She felt him, in the depths of the soul that was now chained to him, felt him fly home; saw blurrily through his eyes the girl waiting for him. A violent, insane jealousy rose and Sansai leapt to her feet, intent on tearing her rival to pieces. Despair weakened her knees, filled her eyes with tears. She sank back to the ground, fisting her hands in the cool, dark earth.

Gods, she had marked him. Marked and bonded herself to him. Now, she was his to kill with a word, his to destroy with a touch. Her fist shot out and pulverized the stone at her feet. The pain rose up again, leaving her writhing in the dirt, washing over her body in smothering waves.

 

“Gods Trunks,” she whispered, her hand fisting over her throbbing heart, “you’ll be the death of me.”

 

She leaned against the stone, tried to relax, tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, Trunks’ face rose sharp and clear. His scent filled her nose, his blood slid like hot wine down her throat, his body pounded against hers with the thud of a blow at each powerful thrust. Trunks Briefs, her mate, the sum of all her desires. In her mind’s eye, as clear as a snapshot, Sansai saw Trunks speaking to the girl on the lawn, saw the girl’s tears. _Sniveling weakling, she is unworthy of him,_ Sansai scoffed.

 

Then, like the images of a nightmare, Trunks’ arms curled around her and he set his mouth to hers. The pain was real enough, knocking her flat. And the ready fist curled inside her chest struck. The part of her soul that was bonded to Trunks stretched taut, screeching under the strain. Her heart quaked under the shock of it, and the sting of betrayal seeped like poison through her mind. Sanity faded, disappeared like the dancing shadows cast by the clouds. Her power exploded in a halo of gold, but she did not notice. She did not weep, but screamed and screamed, slamming her head against the rock in a paroxysm of grief until blood trickled down her face like death’s tears.


	5. The Deal

Videl ran up to him as soon as his feet touched the ground.

 

“Not now, Videl,” he said tiredly, longing for a stiff drink to dull the pains of the night. Videl bit her lip, then promptly burst into tears. Trunks cast his eyes heavenward, both in a plea for reprieve and to note the position of the moon. Safely behind clouds at the moment. Softening his tone, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

 

Sniffing bravely, Videl looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. Her heart-shaped face was pale and soft in the low light, unlike the fierce lines of Sansai’s face. Still, Trunks felt the stirrings of tenderness for her, and a deep and genuine friendship. He forgot his irritation and led her to the bench against the tool shed, safely in shadow.

 

“It’s Pop, Trunks! He—he went down to help Kenji with the sweep of the lower levels, I asked him to. And—and there was another cave-in.”

 

Trunks’ belly tightened. While he and Hercule had their disagreements, Hercule was a good man and a good leader. And Kenji was a true friend and reliable foreman.

 

“Are they all right?” he asked gently, threading a comforting arm around her shoulders. Her lip trembled, and she shook her head.

 

“Kenji is fine. Just some bruises and scrapes. But Pop . . . his leg is broken real bad and he hit his head. He . . . he hasn’t woken up yet.” Trunks patted her shoulder, making a soothing noise. The leg was easily fixed in the regen tank or with a Senzu. Brain damage, on the other hand was a much thornier problem. A sob escaped her and she turned to bury her head against his chest. Her tears fell like cold rain against his bare skin.

 

“It’s my fault, Trunks! I asked him to go down there. If I--”

 

“Videl,” he cut of the stream of self-recrimination with a soft squeeze, “you can’t blame yourself. Your father knew the risk when he went down. He did it of his own will. Don’t worry. We’ll find a way to heal him.”

She looked up and there was such trust and adoration in her eyes. She leaned close, her eyes slipping closed. In a gesture of comfort and curiosity, Trunks kissed her, light and soft. Nothing. No flicker of any deeper emotion other than comfort. He only saw Sansai’s face etched inside his mind when he had thrust into her, that soft look. He shook himself out of his reverie.

 

“Goodnight, Videl. I’ll send Mom down to have a look at your father.”

 

 

 

 

Mom was waiting for him, pacing in the living room like a tiger in a cage, gnawing on her fingernails. She heard his step and whirled around.

 

“Thank Kami!” she said, embracing him quickly. He felt her eyes take in his form, the rumpled, dusty pants, the torn remnants of his shirt hanging from his waist, his snarled hair.

 

“What happened? Did you change? Where is Sansai?” the questions shot forth, rapid and sharp as a burst of ki. Trunks winced.

 

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” he put in tentatively. Mom’s blue eyebrows forked and she smacked his arm.

 

“Well I’m sorry, son, but you’re going to tell me what the hell happened tonight! Did you two fight? Where the _hell_ is Sansai?” she demanded, her hands fisted on her hips. Trunks grimaced and walked past her into the lab. He sat on one of the high stools at her worktable. Slowly, the anger ebbed from her manner when she saw how troubled he was and she sat beside him, pushed her cup of tea into his hand. Accepting it gratefully, he took a slow sip.

 

“I don’t know,” he answered.

 

An image of Sansai darted across his thoughts, of her shrouded in the gold of a Super Saiyan, flying with maddened speed through the night, blood caked on her face, seeping from a wound on her forehead. Shaken, he glanced sidelong at Mom, to find her staring at his neck. At the bite Sansai had left on his neck.

 

Her blue eyes wide, she said calmly, “Trunks, I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”

Heat rose up to color his face and he dropped his gaze to the depths of the mug. He threaded one hand through his tangled lavender hair and blew out a breath.

 

“Well, we were arguing, initially. I thought . . .” he broke off, started again, “She fell asleep last night and when I carried her to her room, she kind of . . . nuzzled my chest. And then she said my—Vegeta’s name. It made me angry. Really angry. I thought maybe she wanted to be his mate or something. She told me that I was an idiot and quite forcefully insisted she didn’t want that. Then we flew out into the middle of nowhere and beat the hell out of each other. Then . . .” he trailed off, blushing furiously.

 

He couldn’t call it lovemaking. It had been too hot, too violent for love. Or even mindless sex. They had clawed at each other, struggling together with fury and something deep and soul-shattering. At least, on his side it had been.

 

“I . . . I took her. Without even a thought for her, I took and took. I couldn’t stop myself.”

 

There was no hint of disgust or judgment in her face, only understanding and the slightest gleam of pleasure. What about this was good? He wondered. 

 

“She struggled, and bit me at the end. When it was over, I felt so awful. I told her it was a mistake--”

 

The slight smile at Mom’s lips vanished.

 

“What?” she asked sharply. Trunks reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.

 

“I love her, Mom. I didn’t want our first time to be so harsh, rolling around in the dirt like animals. I told her it was a mistake and--” his lip curled in reluctant amusement, touching the bruise along his jaw; “she punched me in the face and flew off.”

 

For the first time in his life, he struck his mother speechless. She gaped at him, mouthing opening and closing around soundless words. Tangled emotions that he couldn’t define whirled in her eyes, then anger shone hot. Shooting out one arm, she cast a hard upward slap to the back of his head. He pitched forward, spilling hot tea on his thigh.

 

“You idiot! You told her it was a _mistake_?!  How could you do that to her?” Bulma shouted. She slapped his shoulder for good measure. He raised an arm to defend himself, wondering how much more verbal abuse he would take tonight.

 

“Do what? We had sex,” Trunks snapped, “incredible, sweaty, kick-your-ass sex. Isn’t that part worse than saying it was a mistake?” Bulma cast her eyes up to the ceiling, then sighed.

 

“Well, shit. What is it with Saiyans and not telling anyone what they mean?” she looked at him and smiled weakly.

 

“I’m sorry I hit you, hun. But—she’ll hate me for saying this—Sansai is in love with you. And she’s probably in a lot of pain right now, physically and emotionally.” Remorse struck him square in the chest knocking his breath from his lungs.

 

“I know I hurt her, Mom but--”

 

“No, that’s not what I meant,” she interrupted. He shot her a puzzled look.

 

By way of explanation, she tugged down the collar of her shirt, exposing the scar. Trunks opened his mouth to ask why this was pertinent and the realization smacked him in the face. It was the same as the bite on his neck.

 

“This scar marks me as your father’s bonded mate. The bond is sacred and rare in Saiyan culture, feared by most. It meshes two souls together forever, unbreakable by anything.”

 

Trunks gaped at her, shocked, floored that the proud, independent man that was his father would make such a grand gesture. There was no greater proof of his love for her. And Sansai . . .

 

“Kami . . .” he whispered.  Bulma nodded.

 

“Vegeta explained that both mates have to mark the other, and . . . push their souls into one another. If not, than there is only a half bond. The bonded mate remains in a sort of limbo, and unable to renege their commitment. If the unbonded mate so much as touches another, the bonded partner is in unspeakable pain. If the unbonded mate rejects the other completely, the bonded mate will pine away and die.”

 

Trunks paled, thinking of Videl and the vision of Sansai bloodied with madness in her eyes. He buried his face in his hands.

 

“Oh gods, what have I done?” he cried. Mom’s hand was gentle on his shoulder.

 

“It’s all right, hun. It’s easily fixed. If you love her, then bond with her and she’ll be yours forever.”

 

Trunks leapt up, shaking with horror and reaction. His heart pounded the rhythm of her name.

 

 _Sansai, Sansai, Sansai!_  

 

“No, Mom, you don’t understand. I . . . I kissed Videl when I came home tonight.”

 

“What?” Bulma repeated, eyes wide with shock and anger. Trunks stepped back, raising his hands in supplication lest she decide to start hitting again.

 

“Her dad was hurt today. Badly. It was comfort, nothing else,” he said petulantly, defending himself even as he felt sick in his heart. Mom’s face was stark with the sick horror that pulsed beneath his breastbone, the shock and fear.

 

“It doesn’t matter, Trunks. Sansai won’t know the difference. Kami, she’ll be mad with pain. I’ll take care of Hercule. You have to find Sansai. Go. Now.”

 

Trunks nodded, kissing Mom’s cheek.

 

“I will, Mom. I promise I’ll make this right.”

*~*

Her quarry sat weeping under the shade of a tree. Her face buried in her upraised knees, Videl’s thin shoulders shook with the force of her sobs. _Weak. When my soul was thrust in a fire of agony, not a tear fell from my eye. Not in the Ice Clan prison, not now._  

 

Maddened blood-soaked thoughts wrapped around her mind, whispering lies. Her nostrils flared, catching her mate’s scent on the girl. A snarl rose in her throat, but she choked it down. The rational part of her mind clung to the charged words of honor, decency, compassion, but they were slipping through her fingers, slipping away with her sanity as scattered moonbeams danced. Breath whined past her lips, sweat trickled in tiny rivulets on her skin.  

 

“It’s not safe to wander outside under a full moon, human,” Sansai growled mockingly, the words torn from a throat sore from screaming. Videl’s head snapped up, and seeing her, she stumbled to her feet. Sansai watched the confusion and even fear flit across her face. Sansai smirked. She must make a fearsome sight, bloodied and trembling in the throes of fever. Her head swam with the pain of her wound, her vision doubled both by pain and a possible concussion.

 

“You . . . you can change your hair color, like Trunks,” she quavered. Sansai frowned. Change color . . .?  Sansai lifted a hand to touch her hair. Swept up. She knew it was a shining gold, and her eyes a burning green. She looked down. Even the fur of her tail had changed to that bright blonde. A laugh rolled out of her. A Super Saiyan.

 

“I did it. I’ve ascended,” she whispered. She looked back at Videl and saw the terror shaking her limbs, milky white moonlight reflected in her eyes. The memory of her offense rose up and Sansai flared her ki, just to feel the joy of her increase in strength.

 

“I have more power than you can even fathom, human. And it is you he seeks? He’ll kill me if he takes you. I have no choice.” Sansai took one step toward Videl, matching the retreating step Videl took. Sansai could hear the throb of her heart, maddened with fear, and the animal in her reveled in it, closing in for the kill. When her canines lengthened and her eyes flashed from green to red, Videl screamed.

 

“What’s _wrong_ with you? Are you some kind of monster?  What have I done to you? Why do you want to kill me?” she cried, backed up against the tree trunk. Her words brought Sansai up short and she shook her head to clear it. Rival or no, the girl did not deserve to die! Sansai had the power of her ancestors and she would not be controlled! The effort of containing the screeching beast was monumental, her mind scored by its claws as she gathered the threadbare pieces of her control. Her knees gave out with the intensity of her struggle.

 

“No . . .” she said quietly, “No, I don’t want to kill you. Forgive me . . . the moon . . . the moon robs me of my sanity. Go. Go before I cannot stop myself!” she cried, throwing a hand out in her direction to banish her.

 

With a sob and a trip of step, Videl ran off, disappearing into the shed that hid the lift to the bunkers. Sansai focused, throwing her senses out into the night. She followed Videl down the lift and lost her speck of ki in the nest of humans below. She sighed, dragging herself into the deep shade of the shed and lay curled on her side, thanking the gods that her control had held. It would hardly ingratiate her to Trunks to have her kill the weakling girl.

 

She felt him before he landed. And cursed the part of her heart that rejoiced at his presence.

 

“Sansai!” he cried, and ran the few steps separating them. His long olive-toned feet came into her range of vision framed by the hem of his ragged gi pants. She squelched the impulse to lay her pounding head at his feet. Her skin quivered, longing for his touch. Cruel love lanced her heart and pain crept its way up her spine to the base of her skull. She looked up, following the sleek lines of his body, right into his beautiful blue eyes and thought, _Here I am, my prince, on my face before you. I am your slave to do with what you wish._

He flinched. He must have heard that, or recoiled at the blood caked on her face.

 

“Sansai,” he whispered, and there was tenderness in his voice and the same wrenching depths of feeling she had pined for. Admiration shone in his face and she was blinded by the light of his smile.

 

“You did it. You’re a Super Saiyan.”

 

“Thanks to you.” the words whipped out with a stinging bite.

 

Sorrow troubled the limpid pools of his eyes.  He knelt down, one finger idly brushing the scar on her shoulder blade. Fire rippled under her skin at the hesitant touch. The mad heat blistering inside of her chilled, as if a cool hand stroked her brow. Glancing up, she found the moon safely hidden behind a thickening screen of clouds.

 

“I’m so sorry, Sansai. I never meant to hurt you,” he said gently, his unbearably handsome face creased in concern. Sansai stared blankly at him. Sansai felt shaky on unfamiliar ground. Contrition was rare with her people, spoken apologies even more so. Anger was easier. And a hell of a lot more satisfying. She rose with fluid, animal grace, turning her back to him. She couldn’t look in his eyes, the same eyes that went soft and tender when they joined, into the eyes that held the world, and live.

 

“Yes, I know. It was a mistake. Too bad you didn’t realize that before you fucked me. It wouldn’t have wasted our time.”

 

“Sansai, look at me.” His voice rang with a note of command, softened by that disarming tenderness. Her teeth ground together. Damn him. She whirled around, gold sparks dancing at her feet. He tapped the mark with one long finger.

 

“I know what this means. Mom told me. And you need to know that I want you too. It was a mistake, for me, to take you like that, without a care for you or your pleasure.”

 

“You pleased me well enough,” Sansai blurted, then blushed.

 

He smiled a bit sheepishly, scratching the back of his head as he continued, “It was my first time and yours, and we . . . I wanted it to be different. More . . . human, I guess you’d say. Gentle and slow and sweet. I wanted to give you so much more, Sansai. I still do. I want to take you out on a date.”

 

“What’s that?” Sansai asked, enchanted by the picture he painted, so foreign to what she knew. Trunks blinked.

 

“It’s a . . . a courtship ritual, I suppose. It’s where you and I go somewhere alone and talk and eat.”

 

She frowned.

 

“Talk about what?”

 

He shrugged, making a vague fluttering gesture with his hand.

 

“Anything. What we like or don’t like, our dreams, our pasts. You know, getting to know each other.”

 

Sansai smirked, amused by the notion.

 

“You already know me. Intimately.” she pointed out and was charmed by embarrassed color staining his cheeks.

 

“Not like that. I want to know what you feel here,” he laid a hand over his heart. Sansai reached out through the fledgling bond, pushing a knot of her tangled emotions through.

_You know, Trunks, son of Vegeta and Bulma. You know my heart as well as you know your own._

 

He gasped, taken back, then he closed the distance between them until she was enveloped by his scent and warmth. Gently, unbearably gently, he wrapped her in an embrace. With a soft cry, she buried her face in his chest, arms and tail wrapping tight, clinging. For one heady instant, it seemed as if they inhabited one body, breathing as one.

 

“If you feel as I feel, why must we go through this lie? If we were under the moon on Planet Vegeta, we would spend the next few days learning each other’s bodies. I am yours, Trunks. And . . . and I remain unbonded. Would you see me in pain?”

 

He groaned, his arms tightening around her. He pressed his mouth to her upswept golden hair, hands sliding up her back to cup her head with feather’s softness. His lips wandered to her face, soothingly touching the wound on her forehead. A gentle, ticklish sensation, Sansai found that it roused greed inside her, a hunger for his lips, breath, and tongue. 

 

“I can’t stand to see you in any kind of pain, Sansai. Surely you know that. I will not choose another. What happened with Videl was in comfort only. Had I known it would hurt you, I wouldn’t have come close to her. You’re it for me. But . . . humor me. Give me a day. Let me have the illusion of courting you like you deserve. Then . . . then we will do as the Saiyans do.”

 

It wasn’t fair, she thought. To have him holding her with an intoxicating mix of possessiveness and gentleness, to have his clean, masculine scent filling her nose, to have his blue eyes looking at her with such unfiltered adoration . . . the words of protest died on her tongue. Damn it, it wasn’t fair! She sighed wearily, pressing her cheek to his chest, listening to the steady drum of his heartbeat.

 

“I can deny you nothing. You will have your day _,_ ” she promised. Standing so close, she felt the joy rush through him along with concern.

 

“Are you all right, Sansai? Are you in a great deal of pain?” he said, hands stroking between her shoulder blades, the soft mouth-caresses touching her brow. Sansai basked in the pleasure of his touch, then said, “I’m fine. My head hurts a bit. You wouldn’t happen to have one of those magic beans, would you?” he snorted in amusement.

 

“And I’m very tired,” Sansai admitted, allowing her exhaustion to coat her voice. She looked down at her blond tail curled around Trunks’ waist and remembered she was still in the form of a Super Saiyan.

 

“Trunks? How do I change back?” she asked. He smiled.

 

“It’s draining the first time.”

 

“I’ve had a great many firsts tonight,” she said wryly. Raising her head from its comfortable spot on his chest, she scented rain in the air, and the tomatoes in the pasta meal Bulma was cooking inside. Her stomach cramped with hunger. His laugh was soft and sexy.

 

“Okay. We’ll get you powered down and go inside for a shower, a Senzu and a meal. How does that sound?” he asked.

 

“Wonderful,” she replied.

 

 

 

 

Bulma stood at the door, arms akimbo, wooden spoon in hand. Golden light from inside the house framed her and the aroma of the meal smelled delicious. Sansai could tell by her expression that she was less than pleased with the events of the night. Sansai felt a pang of worry. The bond was forever. Did Bulma not want her as mate for her son? Trunks sensed the tenor of her thoughts and took her hand in his, squeezing gently. She cast him a grateful glance. 

 

“Well, you two have made a fine mess of things. Damn it, my reflectors won’t work unless you put them on, you idiot Saiyans!”  As the two of them stepped into the light, she broke off. Her expression melted into one of tenderness and the love bubbling into her bright blue eyes erased the anxiety curled in Sansai’s belly.

 

“Sansai honey, your head,” Bulma whispered, brushing off the caked blood on Sansai’s nose. Sansai mustered a smile, though her head still pulsed with pain and her knees felt watery with fatigue.

 

“I’ll be fine, my lady. A few minutes in the regen tank and I’ll be--”

 

“The regen tank has an occupant at the moment,” Bulma said, meeting Trunks’ eyes briefly. Sansai frowned at the two of them. Trunks cleared his throat and said, “Sansai, Videl’s father was injured today. That was why I . . .” he coughed, grimacing.

 

“Anyway, Mom let him use the regen tank. We have Senzu, don’t we Mom?” he asked. Bulma nodded and produced one of beans from her pocket. Sansai ate it gratefully, gasping in shock as the pain disappeared and her strength was restored. Her limbs still felt leaden with lethargy, but at least she wouldn’t fall face first asleep into her food.

 

“Come on. Both of you shower and change and dinner will be ready by the time you get out,” Bulma commanded, bustling into the kitchen without a backward glance.

 

The shower went a long way to clearing the fog around her thoughts and the meal even more so. Bulma dished them plate after plate of what she called spaghetti, with meatballs as large as her fist, spicy and delectable. As she ate, Trunks filled Bulma in on the details of the night, including Sansai’s ascension and the bargain they struck. Bulma’s mouth firmed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing to flashing slits of blue. She opened her mouth to argue and Sansai cut in.

 

“I have agreed, my lady. It won’t hurt me to wait a day. The moon is on the wane, and my heat will end soon,” she said softly, to placate her. Bulma let out a breath and let the issue lie. Sansai caught her eye.

 

_You must tell him of the babe, Bulma. When we bond, he will see into me and know what I know. He will be angry if you do not tell him._

 

Bulma nodded absently, gently ruffling Trunks’ long hair in passing. He smiled sweetly as she did so.

 

_I’ll tell him first thing in the morning. Both of you have had a long night._

Sansai rose and set her plates into the sink.

 

“Goodnight,” she bade them both.

 

At the doorway to her room, she heard Trunks’ footfalls behind her. A tiny, persistent pang of hunger rippled through her belly. She cursed the bargain she had struck. _Damn his human scruples!_ She thought. She leaned against the doorjamb, tail flicking back and forth nervously. If she was to go to her bed alone, she didn’t want the sight and smell of him to follow her into sleep. Her dreams were wrought with him as it was.

 

“Sansai,” he said, licking his lips nervously, “I just wanted to apologize again for what happened tonight . . . I--”

 

She hushed him with a gesture and stared at her feet.

 

“Trunks,” she began bashfully, “let me explain a few things to you. First off, the courtship customs are different among our people.”

 

“Things tend to be different among Saiyans,” he muttered and Sansai raised her eyes to his and held.

 

“To initiate it, the male insults the female and the pair spar first with words, like flirting. Then the male issues a challenge to the female and the two spar with fists. And then, if he is strong enough, he . . . takes her.” he blinked at her blankly, then smiled a little.

 

“So you . . . you were courting me the whole time. Tonight wasn’t--”

 

“I am not one of your weakling human females, Prince Trunks,” she snapped, indignant, “I don’t need you to protect me. I am strong. I could have stopped you, but I chose not to. My choices are my own. You did not force me, you did not coerce me, and while you may have hurt me, I didn’t care. Nothing happened tonight that I did not will.”

 

Trunks disarmed her swelling irritation by grabbing her hand and threading their fingers together.

 

“Good. And thank you. For giving into my weak, silly human notions. That tells me that you love me—all of me.”

 

He leaned in and brushed his mouth over hers. The sensation lit a smoldering fire in her belly even as her heart melted in tenderness.

 

“Goodnight Sansai,” he whispered and was gone.


	6. A Date

Sansai rose the next morning to find that she had slept late; the sun was already near its zenith. She felt a moment’s irritation at not being woken, but it faded at the sight of a red flower, a rose, resting on her window sill. Her heart gave a little lurch and she cradled the fragile token, breathing in its heady perfume. _Trunks_.

Not wanting to crush the beautiful flower with the exertions of the day, she carried it to the bathroom and rested it in the glass that held several of the teeth-cleaners Bulma called toothbrushes.

 

With a bounce in her step, she descended the stairs to find Bulma ladling stew into a bowl for Videl and the hairiest man Sansai had ever seen. Thick black tufts of hair bristled on his arms, curled over the collar of his shirt, hung in tight curls on his head and face. Even his eyelashes were long and dark, like a woman’s, framing eyes as blue as Videl’s. The man’s voice matched his barrel-like chest, deep and booming as he asked Videl to pass the salt.

 

Sansai paused in the doorway. She could hear the faint strains of what she now knew as a guitar floating through the air from lab. The part of her soul that was linked to him knew he was in the shower, replete from breakfast, and his thoughts were dark and turbulent, swirling around the axis of a single truth: Bulma was pregnant. She had kept her word and told him. And he had not been pleased.

 

Sansai probed stealthily at his thoughts, trying to discern what angered him so. _How could he love me? He’s never seen me. He’ll love the little one, this son that will bear his name. How could he not? What chance do I have?_ Streaming words, bearing his insecurities broke over her like a wave and her heart softened in tenderness. Her mate yearned for his father’s love when it was already his. Was the medallion not proof enough? Was King Vegeta’s desire to raise him to the rank of Prince not enough? _He must learn the subtleties of Saiyan love,_ Sansai thought, strolling into the kitchen.

 

“Good morning, Sansai,” Bulma said, tossing a bottle of water to her over her shoulder as she ladled more stew. Sansai caught it neatly.

 

“Good afternoon is more like it. How long did I sleep?” she asked. Saiyans, normally, needed no more than a handful of hours to charge their bodies, but with the trials of the previous night, snagging a few more made her feel strangely languorous. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sensation. Bulma smiled and patted her shoulder.

 

“Almost twelve hours, hun. You had quite a night.”  Smiling wryly, Sansai sat, unscrewing the cap of her water and taking a long draught. She cut a glance to Videl. The laughter died out of her eyes and she visibly tensed. The brash, hairy man glowered at her from beneath beetled brows. His gaze fell to her tail and stared shamelessly.

 

“So you’re one of those freaks from outer space, huh?  Freakishly strong and fast, like Trunks?” he boomed, eyeing her with open suspicion and naked hostility. Sansai’s jaw clenched, the dreamy peace evaporating. A freak, was she, like Trunks? This imbecile knew _nothing_!  The bout in the regen tank may have healed his body, but his mind was beyond repair. She watched Videl discreetly put a staying hand on her father’s forearm. Sansai’s appraisal of the girl lightened a hair. Videl, at least, knew not to trifle with a Saiyan.

 

“I am descendant of a proud race of warriors, human. And I have none of Trunks’ scruples on manners. Call me a freak again, and I’ll re-break your leg so badly not even my lady Bulma’s regen tank will be able to mend it,” Sansai said, punctuating the artistically worded threat with a bite of sourdough bread. The man snorted, but said nothing more.

 

 _Sansai! Be nice! You did threaten his daughter last night, you know!_ Bulma’s scolding voice rang in her head, shrill with annoyance. Sansai scowled at her plate, but otherwise gave no outward sign of their mental conversation.

 

_I’ll not listen to such insults on my people and my mate. If it was King Vegeta he spoke of, you would have squawked and thrown things._

 

Amusement tempered the strains of annoyance.

 

_I hate it when you’re right, Sansai. Eat your lunch._

Sansai dove into the generous fare with alacrity, ignoring the ebb and flow of conversation around her. Eventually, Videl and the hairy man, who she learned was Hercule, took their leave of Bulma with gushing thanks. When Sansai had sifted every delicious drop of stew and gobbled every slice of bread, she shoved away from the table with a sigh. Bulma, who had long since been finished and was knee-deep in a scientific text, looked up with an excited gleam in her eyes.

 

“All right, Sansai. You’re mine for the next few hours!” Bulma said. Sansai mustered a smile, quickly thinking for an excuse. She would much rather spend the day training, and she needed to rein in the new power that boiled beneath her skin . . .

 

“Uh, what are we doing exactly?” she asked tentatively. The smile widened.

 

“I’m going to get you ready for your date, of course. Trunks is preparing something special for you.”

 

Surprised pleasure flowed through her and she attempted to peek through the bond when a hard wall of energy blocked her. His voice sluiced over her, warmly affectionate.

 

_Ah ah, darling. You can’t see it until I’m done. I’ll come for you at sundown._

 

Suddenly nervous and unsure, she looked up at Bulma and protested weakly, “But my lady, I---”

 

“Sansai, what are you planning to wear?” Bulma asked, one delicate brow arched in skeptical regard. Sansai shrugged and gestured at the tattered battlesuit she wore.

 

“That’s what I thought,” Bulma said with a soft laugh, “by the time I’m done, you’ll knock his socks off.”

 

“Why would we want--”

 

“Never mind,” she said with a dismissive gesture, “come on.” Bulma tugged at her arm and Sansai rose.

 

“My lady, this will . . . please Trunks?” she asked softly. Bulma’s face softened and her hand tightened on Sansai’s in a gentle squeeze.

 

“Yes, sweetheart. Yes, I think it will.”

*~*

Trunks plucked at the white dress shirt he wore. Borrowed from one of Kenji’s sons, it was a bit snug across the chest, and smelled of moth balls and was stiff with starch. Mom made him wait here, and he mentally ran through the checklist for the night.

 

 _Damn, I forgot about the roses! I hope they’re still fresh when we get there . . ._  

 

He caught himself pacing. Why was he so nervous? Trunks took a deep breath to steady himself and scrutinized his appearance in the mirror on the wall for the thousandth time. His chin was clean-shaven, and his hair tied back in a low ponytail. The tails of the starchy shirt he left untucked, and the dark jeans he wore only had one grease stain on them, cleverly hidden by his wrapped tail. His shoes were the only truly embarrassing part of his ensemble. Older than Trunks, the brown leather had seen better days, scuffed with a tear along his left heel. Everyone in the bunkers was quite smug about this particular arrangement with Sansai, and had given him choice bits of advice along with offering him twenty-year-old cologne or shoe polish, which Trunks had laughingly refused. Sansai liked his own scent well enough.

God of gods, what the hell was taking so long?

 

Minutes ticked by and Trunks worried his lower lip with his teeth, knee bouncing. At last, Mom descended the stairs, looking smug. The slight sheen of tears in her eyes gave away the brimming pride she felt.

 

“Oh Trunks, you look so handsome,” she said huskily.

 

Trunks smiled and crossed the room to her, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek.

 

“These are for you, Mom. Susan grows these on the south the house. She cut a dozen when I told her you liked them,” Trunks said, handing her the tied bouquet of purple lilies. One tear betrayed her will and leaked from her eye.

 

“They’re beautiful, Trunks. Thank you,” she whispered, choked with emotion. She embraced him and held for a moment. Then she pulled back and hurried wiped her face.

 

“I’m sorry, you must be dying to see her,” Mom said, setting the flowers aside.

 

“Sansai! Come down, hun, Trunks is waiting!” Mom called. His belly tightened in taut anxiety, his eyes straining for a glimpse of her. She stole his breath as she descended the stairs with her fluid grace and came to stand before him.  Her spiky black hair was bound up with Mom’s ivory combs and the sapphires winked amid the rich black strands. His chest squeezed at the sight of the rose he had left for her perched in her hair. To match the combs, an ivory armlet snaked around her upper arm. As if polishing a rare gem, Mom’s subtle glamour enhanced the dark, dangerous beauty of Sansai’s face, not daring to conceal the sharp, exotic angles that made her Saiyan. The flowing royal blue dress she wore bared a portion of her strong shoulders, and ended just above her knees. Dimly, he heard his mother bid them goodnight and walk into her lab.

 

Trunks stared slack-jawed at her, his heart bursting in his chest. Her black eyes met his and they watched each other in mutual appreciation.

 

“S—Sansai . . . you look . . .” he trailed off, struck speechless. An instant of something akin to fear flashed across her thoughts like a comet.

 

“Do I look all right? I feel a bit foolish,” she said, embarrassment adding color to her cheeks. There was so much he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her that he would spend the rest of his life worshipping her, that there was a part of him that wanted to skip the date in favor of other festivities in the bedroom. But instead he said, “You look beautiful, Sansai.” And was charmed to see her eyes light up in pleasure. He offered her his arm.

 

“Shall we?”

 

 

 

 

He would have liked to carry her in his arms to where he had laid their dinner, but he contented himself with flying beside her, hands linked. The moon, harmless on the waning phase, gilded her in silver and white. The expression on her face was equal parts confusion and happiness as they landed on the shore of a large, dark lake. Hand still firmly in his; she looked around, recognizing the place where she had fled last night, in pain and alone. He watched her carefully as he said, “I thought we’d replace the bad memory of this place with a good one.”

 

On the lake’s shore, he laid a table and two chairs. Hidden in the rocks was his mp3 player, whispering romantic chords. He saw the enchantment dawn on her face and took the seat Trunks led her to. He lit the candles with a flick of ki and groped in his pocket for the capsule with the food. He deployed it and laid the large, steaming bowls of Spaghetti-O’s on the table. Her brow lifted.

 

“Are these some sort of delicacy?” she poked at it with her fork. Trunks laughed as he sat down. Scratching the back of his head, he said, “Not exactly. At least, I don’t think anyone would call canned pasta a delicacy. But it’s actually pretty good.” Sansai gifted him with a wry grin and took a bite.

 

“Good,” she said.

 

Grinning like an idiot, Trunks reached beneath the table, groping for the mini-fridge and snagging two glass bottles. He felt her gaze and looked up to find her eyes soft with a deep tenderness that tugged at his heart. Awash in candle and moonlight, she looked so beautiful . . . Trunks swallowed hard. Something predatory lurked there too, as if he was a treat that she wanted to devour. He felt a pang in his belly in response. Gods, would it always be this way between them? Could he look at her and not fantasize about what it would be like to have her beneath him in warm darkness? He broke the trance by setting the two bottles on the white tablecloth, splattering drops of condensation.

 

“What’s that?” she asked. He smiled and twisted off the caps. The hiss of escaping gas broke the idyllic stillness, sharp and crisp. The dark liquid fizzed and pale foam frothed within the glass. He handed one to her.

 

“I think you’ll like this. It’s called soda. I don’t know the brand. It took me forever to find it. You’re the only one I’d want to drink it with.” He watched, with childish delight, as surprise and pleasure sluiced over her face at the first sip, at the sweetness and the bite. She licked her lips.

 

“It tickles,” she beamed, looking from him to the bottle with shining appreciation, “what a marvel. Earth is a place of beauty and wonder, Trunks, truly.”

*~*

The date held none of formality or awkwardness she had feared. Trunks was still Trunks, although all the more devastating to her senses when dressed as he was with the soft music humming through her blood and the light shining soft on him. Sansai rested her chin on her cupped palm and contented herself with watching him, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. His decorum was an oddity too, among Saiyans. Only King Vegeta, with his royal manners, could compare. His blue eyes met hers and stole her breath with the emotions shining there. His mouth curved and he reached across the table and touched her wrist, callused fingertips stroking the skin with whispering caresses. Sansai shivered. If he wanted to seduce her, he was doing a damn good job of it . . .

 

“What’s this?” he whispered, drawing her from her dreamy languor. Sansai frowned, then realized he was touching her tattoo, “do many Saiyans have tattoos?”

  
Sansai offered him her wrist, shivered in delight as he peered at the symbol, warm breath tickling her skin. Her king’s face nudged its way into her brain, the look of pride and affection when she had taken the _mera’jah_. She pushed the image away.

 

“Not many. Tattoos are more than a means of self-expression on Planet Vegeta. They are the mark of a sworn oath, like mine, or indicative of profession. My squad-brother, Keyuka, bears one here,” she tapped her left shoulder, “he is a son of one of the great guilds of carvers. Had he not been chosen for the guard, that is what he would have done.” The now-familiar pang of sadness stuck her at the mention of Keyuka. Thoughts of Keyuka tangled with Broly and she quickly smothered the twisted knot of emotions rising in her throat. But he saw it.

 

“So sad . . . why are you sad, Beloved?” Trunks asked gently, touching his mouth to her tattoo.

 

“I’m fine,” she rasped, unnerved by the endearment and his perception. His grip tightened when she tried to pull back. Blue eyes flashed.

 

“Don’t hide from me, Sansai. Telling me what you feel, what you have endured, that’s not weakness. It’s intimacy.”

 

Sansai let out a soft breath, taking a long draught of the sweet-sharp, bubbly drink he called soda. _Another thing to take home,_ she thought.

 

“It’s a long story,” she said weakly, but he only smiled, seeing she had acquiesced, and twined the fingers of the captive hand with his.

 

“Tell me.”

 

She took a deep breath and relaxed into the rhythm of the story, as was her profession.

 

“Per Saiyan law, orphans are the responsibility of the next of kin, it has always been so. I went to live with my uncle, his mate and their son. They became my squad, my family. My cousin, Broly, was . . . was a brother to me. We shared everything. It was on our first mission as adults that he was injured. I think it was then that he first . . . that he went mad. We were raiding one of Frieza’s fuel lines for his ships. We were ambushed as we were diverting the pipes. Ice Clan attacked us, killing the two others with us. I snuck up on one and killed it, but Broly . . .” she paused, lost in the memory of fire, and her cousin’s screams. Trunks’ hand was warm and strong and Sansai was soothed by the understanding in his eyes.

 

“How old were you?” he asked gently. She blinked, drawn back from the memory.

 

“A Saiyan becomes an adult when they graduate the _sel’tek_ at fifteen. I was newly made an adult, and Broly was twenty-two,” she explained, then fell, with frightening ease, back into the vision.

 

“The pipe had burst open. Burning fuel was all over him. I flung myself on him, smothering the flames, but . . . Vegar above, he didn’t even look Saiyan anymore. Kakkarot and Prince Vegeta killed the other Ice Clan and left the fuel to burn. We escaped on a refuse barge. It was a three hour flight back to Planet Vegeta. Three hours. He was never the same after that. He became withdrawn, given to bouts of rage at the slightest thing, especially when it came to me. He killed a squad-brother for making a joke about me.” She let out a mirthless laugh.

 

“He wanted me as his bride. My own cousin killed, and broke his oath to our king and people because of some incestuous obsession! The same blood runs through my veins. The same madness.”

 

“Sansai,” he whispered and she glared at him, hating the quivering vulnerability in her heart.

 

“You are not your cousin. Just because he is mad and fixated on you does not mean that you will go mad too.”

 

Sansai smiled grimly.

 

“Oh Trunks. I wish it were true. But I have madness lurking in my blood. I’m afraid--” her jaw clenched around the word, “I’d never forgive myself if I--”

 

“You won’t,” he said with absolute conviction.

 

“How do you know that?” she snapped, tearing away her hand, “I was mad, Trunks. When you touched that girl I was mad with pain. I would have killed her. I wanted her blood on my hands--”

 

“But you didn’t,” Trunks said calmly, retaking her hand, “you stopped yourself even with the moon’s ferocity on you. You have a soul as pure and as strong as diamond, Sansai.” The words stopped her.

 

“I’m not the most mentally stable either,” he warned, sipping his soda. Sansai took the bait.

 

“Oh? Any late night killing sprees that I don’t know about? Skeletons in your closet?”

 

She was rewarded with a laugh, all his white teeth shining. Gods, she treasured his smiles, so rare and bright, like gems. He sobered, eyes shadowed with some remembered pain.

 

“Not exactly,” he replied softly, “when Gohan died, there was something inside me that broke. Another piece broke when Mom left. I knew I would never again love, for everything I loved was taken from me. So I closed that part of myself off and drifted. Training, learning, pining for vengeance. Videl kept me from becoming as robotic as 17 and 18. Mom’s coming back mended a lot of that. And you. You fill that hole in me. Fill it with light and beauty and love.”

 

Impossibly moved, Sansai bit her lip to keep from weeping like a human woman.

 

“If I am your light, Trunks, then you are my sanity. It was your face that kept me strong in the Ice Clan prison. I loved you from the first moment I saw your picture.” His eyes shone, overbright with a sheen of tears.

 

“Beloved,” he whispered.

 

They rose as one. And she was in his arms, drowning in his scent and touch. His mouth crushed hers as if he wanted to devour her whole, filling her with delicious pleasure that resounded through every nerve. The pressure gentled into a soft series of minnowing caresses, widening her mouth. She followed his lead, hands fisted in his shirt. He pulled back, cupping her face as if she was something precious and beautiful. Her soul sang.

 

“Let’s go home,” he said.

 

 

He led her to a bedroom on the first floor.

 

“I think this will work out for both Mom and us by way of privacy,” he said with a wry smile. Sansai smiled a bit uncertainly. The Saiyan way of mating was all she knew. She would be fumbling and unsure. What if Trunks didn’t desire her without the song of the moon pounding in his blood?

 

He closed the door behind them and flicked off his shoes. She did likewise. The moon filtered through the blinds, casting the room in pale, bluish light. Red rose petals were strewn over the floor and on the bed. She smiled at the gesture.

A romantic, her mate.

Trunks padded over to her, wrapped his arms and tail around her from behind. Some of the tension fled from her shoulders and she leaned back in his embrace.

 

“Alone at last, Beloved. What should we do?” he rasped, nibbling her neck. She shuddered and turned in his grasp, pressing herself to him and felt the evidence of his desire. He exhaled shakily, just as affected as she.

 

“No, Sansai. We’ll do this slowly,” he chided, peeling her back. She scowled at him, nerves fluttering in her belly.

 

“Can’t we go slow next time?” she rasped, eyes dark with passionate appeal, splaying her hand on his belly. He chuckled.

 

“No. Now,” he said, with the same imperious note of command that rang in his father’s voice. _Vegar above, leave me be!_ She bade. She would not think of her king or her oath tonight. Duty was for the morning. Tonight she would sink into sweet oblivion with her mate. One strong hand slid down her back to wrap around the base of her tail. Pleasure frothed up her spine, drowning her. She moaned, burying her face in his chest, the crisp, starched surface rasping her skin.

 

“Stand still, Sansai. You’ll like it, I promise,” Trunks whispered. She struggled to do as he asked, summoning her will to steady her legs. He tugged the combs and his rose from her hair. It rebounded into its original shape, black spikes down her shoulders.

 

“You have no idea how long it took to get it that way,” she said wryly. He smiled and threaded his hands in her hair, cupping the shape of her skull. When he looked at her like that, with love brimming in his eyes, she wanted to lay all of creation at his feet.

 

“I like your hair. Dark, defiant, but so soft when you touch it. Just like you.”

 

He squeezed her tail again and she growled at the heady lash of pleasure. If he kept this up she would . . .

 

“Trunks . . .” she began.

 

“All right. That’s unfair. Tails are off limits,” he promised, touching his mouth to hers again, filling her up with his taste and the feel of his tongue against hers. She strained for more, greedy for it. His mouth cruised over her face, down her neck, tanned, strong hands sliding down her arms, stripping her of her jewelry, the only ornamentation she’d ever worn. Her fingers buried in the cool silky fall of his lavender hair as she had longed to do.

 

“What is this?” she whispered breathlessly, wanting a name for this beautiful feeling, “when you set your mouth to mine? It’s . . . it’s wonderful.” Sansai held his face between her hands, face burning when he laughed.

 

“It’s called kissing.”

 

“Kissing,” she repeated, running her thumb over his lower lip, “I like it. This, I suppose, is the Saiyan equivalent.”

 

She took his lower lip between hers, and nibbled at it gently. A sound rippled up his corded throat, resounding hoarse and sweet. With a few stealthy tugs, the dress slid from her, leaving her in her undergarments. She would have gasped, but had no breath as Trunks simply swept her up, and laid her on the bed, their mouths meeting in a crushing kiss. By the time he pulled away, her bones were water and desire clawed at her belly like a rabid animal. Hurriedly, Trunks stripped her of the remaining scraps of cloth, leaving her naked. Dimly, she smelled the perfume of the roses, felt their cool, velvet caresses along her back.

 

“Do that biting thing again. I like it,” he commanded roughly, panting himself.

 

She obliged. He groaned, the heat and moisture of his breath wafting over her face. Sansai felt the thick ridge of his manhood dig into the cradle of her hips. The hot, convulsing ball of cruel desire in her belly descended, settling between her thighs. Feverishly, she tugged at his shirt, wordlessly begging for him to join her in vulnerability. Stubborn taskmaster that he was, he softened her mounting tension with ghosting caresses and stifled her protests with his tongue. With maddening gentleness, his hands followed the contours of her body, lingering on her breasts and tickling her hips. He both eased the quivering tension and made it worse by kneading her breasts, his body moving against hers with an erotic rocking.

 

“Trunks . . . Trunks . . . my love,” Sansai whispered, choking the words out between gasps for breath. His emotions tore through their connection like a whirlwind, scorching hot in the potency of his desire, his love, the incredible joy of giving instead of taking. He lay over her, mouth wandering down her throat, down to tease her nipples with his tongue. Sansai cried out, clenching her hands in his hair, holding him there. Even as deeply entrenched in him as she was, the touch of his fingers between her legs was a shock. One callused fingertip probed, sliding inside. Her back arched, another cry strangled in her throat.

 

“Oh gods,” he whispered, “Sansai . . . Sansai.” Her name was a chant, a prayer on his lips. Speech was robbed from her as his seeking thumb touched the nub at the apex of her thighs; all thought was erased but burning pleasure that seared flesh and marrow. Mercilessly, he drove her, until she climaxed, inner muscles clenching convulsively around his finger.

 

Limp and pulsing, she weakly clawed at his shirt. He reared back and tore it off, scattering buttons. With a growl of approval, she smoothed her hands over the taut, glistening muscle, touching the tiny buds of his nipples, watching the pleasure it gave him with surprise and a kindling greed. In another moment of intense struggle, Trunks was as naked as she. He kneed her thighs apart, braced himself on his elbows above her, but stopped an instant from plunging home. She touched his flushed face, panting with renewed hunger.

 

“Would you make me beg?” she hissed. His expression caught somewhere between raw hunger and tenderness, he kissed her lips, very gently. He slid inside her, his swollen head only just entering her. She broke the seal of his mouth to snarl in frustration, arching, struggling for more of him. Then he laid his head at the cradle of her shoulder and nipped at her throat.

 

_I don’t know how. Show me how._

Her breaths hitched, her heart thrummed in time with his. 

_If you want me, take me. Take my body, my soul, my spirit._

He cried out like a man mortally wounded as he sheathed himself inside her. She climaxed again and the milking convulsions broke some dam inside him and he went wild, bucking against her with the same pounding strength of the night before.

 

“Yes . . . yes!” Sansai cried, fingernails savaging his back, repaying his violence with her own. Trunks dragged her from the edge of a release, dragging her up to the cusp, his breath sobbing from his lips. His teeth sank into the base of her neck, his tongue lapped up the blood and his mind clashed with hers. Even as their bodies came as one, their souls broke free of their restraints. All he was broke over her, the seeking threads of thought, memory and soul meshing with hers, tangling in an unbreakable web. Waves crested over them, washing between them like a tide, until neither could tell where one ended and the other began.

The bond.

It was deep, she knew with the moon so bright and round outside. He had flung every ounce of himself into her, and she reopened the mark she left on his neck, sinking into his soul, branding him as hers in the most primitive of ways.

 

_You’re mine, Trunks, son of Vegeta and Bulma. Mine forever._

_Just as you are mine, Sansai, daughter of Aspar and Negi. We’ll never be alone again._

 

How long they lay there, joined in body and spirit, Sansai didn’t know. Or care.

 

“I love you,” he whispered. The last thing she remembered before falling asleep was Trunks, kissing away the tears on her cheeks, his blue eyes shining like stars.

*~*

Upstairs, alone in her small bed, Bulma dreamed. Startlingly clear, she was on an island in the southern seas of Planet Vegeta. She could smell the salt of the sea; feel the hot puff of desert air on her cheek, feel the warm, coarse red sand beneath her bare feet. Bulma was surprised by a feeling of homecoming. How had Planet Vegeta, this harsh desert world, become her home? A soft, furred tail wrapped around her thigh and she turned to see him, dark and devastating. There was her answer. Because it was _his_ place. 

 

“Vegeta,” she said, flinging herself into his arms. It was no dream, she thought dimly, for his arms around her were wonderfully real, the scent of him musky in her nose, his heat warming her. The force of her longing for him struck her like a blow and she clung to him fiercely.

 

“Bulma,” he whispered, his voice like smoke and honey. They stood like that, not speaking, not moving, drinking in the tangible presence of the bonded mate so far away. Hungrily, Bulma kissed his throat, tasting his sweat and skin, moving up to his mouth.

 

“I miss you so much,” she muttered between kisses, “It feels like an eternity without you. I feel so alone.” His mouth met hers, hands roaming. Pleasure burned soft in her mind, and she felt for the first time in too long the full measure of the bond, thought, emotion and soul meshing.

 

“I miss you too. Missing you is an ache I can’t beat out, a hunger I can’t sate. And worrying for you, lying awake at night wondering if you’re safe, if the brat you carry is safe, wishing you were next to me, beneath me, it’s driving me mad!” he rumbled angrily.

 

Moved, Bulma pulled back, framing his beloved face with her hands. His black eyes pierced hers, so hot and smoldering, like dark suns, mouth twisted in a snarl.

 

“You worry for me?” she asked.

 

He snorted, his lips, red and slightly swollen from their kisses, firmed into a forbidding line.

 

“Of course, woman. You attract trouble like a magnet. The most dangerous thing in the Universe is bound to cross your path.”

 

“Like you, for instance?” she shot back. He smirked.

 

“Yes. Like me. Now, has the brat mated with Sansai yet?”

 

Bulma grinned.

 

“I think they are as we speak.”

 

A swift bark of wicked laughter told her how pleased he was.

 

“Good. Now that that is out of the way, they’ll tear the tin cans into scrap and you can come home. Can you imagine how strong their brat will be? With _two_ Super Saiyan parents?  Almost as strong as our brat,” he said smugly, cupping her swollen stomach. The ball of warmth in her belly, her son’s warm ki swelled in response, moving toward the heat and power of his father. Together, they sank down, looking up at the stars and listening to the crash of the ocean and the beating of each other’s hearts.

 

“Bardock has been having the same reoccurring dream for a week now. A dream of utter destruction, as his visions tend to be. All the Super Saiyans, including Trunks and Sansai, die.”

 

Bulma hissed in a breath, molding herself to him, savoring the safety she felt, that little Vegeta, curled inside her felt, within the circle of her husband’s arms. Vegeta pressed his lips to her brow in a gesture of comfort and she felt through the bond how the dream grieved him. _Will I find my heir at last only to lose him?_

 

“In the vision, I ascend again. I am alone against an army of tech monsters beyond number. Cooler and King Cold have not made so much as a peep since Frieza’s death, and this vexes me. What are they planning? Are they building this army? Not to mention Zohan and his idiots can’t even get the math right on your capsulation technology, much less build a matching prototype, even with your instructions. Fools.” She chuckled. He sighed and nuzzled her neck, pecking a kiss at the bonding mark.

 

“I need you with me, my queen. Speaking with you calms me. You tell me the truth. Every imbecile here can’t get of their faces long enough to tell me anything. I never thought I’d say this, but having the power of the gods can be tedious.” the slight whine in his voice was so strange, she laughed aloud, turning to kiss him.

 

“Kami, Vegeta, I love you. I love that you need me. Seeing you lifts my heart, only with you do I feel truly safe and happy.”

 

“Come home quickly, Bulma,” he said simply. Bulma bit her lip. He saw her distress and frowned.

 

“What is it?” he growled, gruff when it came to feminine emoting.

 

“I’m afraid, Vegeta,” she whispered, “How much time has passed there since we left?”

 

“Two weeks. Why?” he snapped. The angry lash of his tone belayed the anxiety she felt through the bond.

 

“Damn, over a month has passed here. It’s the timing I’m worried about. I—I nearly died when I gave birth to Trunks.”

 

His jaw clenched, his face as dark and forbidding as thundercloud. He hadn’t even been in the same solar system when his son was born. His arms tightened around her and she felt as he felt, the dark tangled knots of worry twisting in his gut, the shards of fear in his veins. Bulma gasped. It hadn’t been annoyance or indifference that drove him into space when she told him she was pregnant, but terror. Paralyzing fear that something would take them away from him, violently, permanently. So he shouted for everyone to hear, including himself, that he didn’t give a damn in hell about them. The old scar on her heart healed.

 

“I will do right by you and the boy—both of them,” he said softly, touching her belly with something akin to wonder, “And you will come back. Even if I have to build a machine myself to come for you, I will.”

 

Bulma smiled.

 

“You will, will you? Tell me, Vegeta, what velocity does one have to achieve to power a tachyon generator?”

 

He growled. Cupping her chin in one palm, he rumbled, “Woman, shut up.”

 

He smothered her laughter with a kiss.

*~*


	7. Vengeance

Vegeta awoke in the predawn hours well-rested, but turbulent in spirit. The dream of his woman, of speaking to her, scenting her, tasting her, brought the dimness of his days into sharp relief. He was reminded of an old Earthling myth of a god who was punished for disobedience by having his liver torn out by a vulture every morning. He had thought it a very barbaric, very Saiyan idea. Now, separated from half his soul by space and time, restored only by dreams and snatched fragments of feeling, he felt a kinship with the pathetic figure.

 

He bathed and dressed, the domestic computer filling him in on pertinent pieces of information in a monotone female voice. Vegeta tuned in and out of the reports, most of the information he already knew.

_Outlying garrisons report no conflicts . . . skirmish in Sector 3 resolved with no loss of Saiyan life . . . the Council is to convene on the next step of action at oh-eight hundred . . . Kakkarot, son of Bardock and Keyuka, son of Oni departed for M16 at thirteen hundred, ETA unknown, objective: pursue deserter number 135, usename Broly._

Vegeta’s head snapped up.

 

“What?” he growled, “Computer, analyze last set of data. Who authorized this? Where the hell is M16?”

 

_Analyzing . . . Authorization: General Raditz, son of Bardock . . . M16, a deserted moon above Dran in Sector 8, uninhabited, used as a storage facility during the beginning stages of the Formation. Insufficient data. Would you be requiring anything else, King Vegeta?_

 

Vegeta growled low in his throat, his already sour mood worsening.

 

“Terminate search. Shut down,” he ordered the computer, storming out of his rooms.

 

 _Raditz! Get your third-class ass over here!_ He shouted telepathically, standing in the middle of a training arena, deserted at the early hour. Through his vague connection, he saw Raditz snap awake curled beside his mate in his modest quarters. A stab of envy permeated his irritation. Gods, this pining for his woman had to stop! Raditz appeared moments later, his face a blank mask.

 

Gold ki whispered to life around him and Vegeta groped vainly for control. His tail lashing from side to side, he spat through clenched teeth, “Can you tell me, _General_ Raditz, why two of my squad-members went off-world without my permission?” the muscles of his face spasmed and Vegeta glimpsed the depths of his anxiety. Sweat gleamed on his skin in the red predawn light.

 

“Sire, Keyuka has been tracking Broly ever since the battle on Planet Frieza. He got a fix on his location and since Kakkarot is very strong . . . forgive any slip in protocol, my king, but the authorization had to be made quickly and you were deep in council with my father . . .”

 

Much of the anger that had knotted his muscles relaxed. In truth, there was a part of himself that wanted to fly off to gods knew where to beat the life out of that incestuous, imbecilic traitor.

 

“Very well, Raditz. Don’t let this go to your head. Commands go through me. Got it?” he snapped. Raditz nodded swiftly, his mane of hair quivering with the movement. Vegeta shrugged off his medallion and breastplate, enjoying the cool kiss of the breeze blowing in from the desert on his skin. 

 

“Spar with me. Then, after you get out of the regen tank, we can look at the feeds and see if those bumbling idiots actually succeeded.”

 

Raditz smiled.

 

“I’d like that, Sire.”

*~*

Trunks woke to the feel of Sansai’s lips on his throat, her sinuous length pressed to his. He smiled, winding his arms around her. Peace, contentment, languorous pleasure, the words did little to justify what he felt with her in his arms, with her soul melted indivisibly with his. He didn’t know how many times they’d taken each other in the night, but each time was as wonderfully different as it was intensely familiar.

 

“Can’t get enough of me, hm?” he rasped, sliding his hands down the smooth skin of her back to grasp the base of her tail loosely. A soft sigh escaped her lips, but he felt faint strains of sorrow beneath the song of her joy in his body and the pleasure of his touch. Trunks opened his eyes and found her kissing the scar on his left shoulder from 18’s thrashing. With overwhelming tenderness, she kissed the mark, grazing a soft trail across the expanse of his chest to lavish her attention on his other arm, where a ki bolt had pierced him.

 

“I’ll tear her hair out,” she whispered, pressing warm, damp kisses to his bicep. Tingling pleasure burned under his skin and Trunks felt his body stir in response. She moved to his chest, nuzzling the sleek muscles, flicking his nipples playfully with her tongue. A soft sound of involuntary pleasure escaped his throat, his body quickening. Slowly, dreamily, her mouth blazed a trail of heat to the scars on his belly. His hands knotted in her hair.

 

“I’ll break every one of her fingers and shove them down her throat,” she swore, punctuating each whispered oath with a soft kiss. Trunks let out a breathless laugh.

 

“I shouldn’t be turned on right now, but I am.”

 

Her black eyes met his in the pearly pre-dawn light and he was rocked by the grief in them. She crawled up his body and pressed a kiss to his lips, warm and tangy with the taste of sweat. Their minds reached out and meshed together. He saw the burning desire for revenge in her heart. He pulled away and ran his fingers through her thick black hair, the beginnings of dread knotting his stomach.

 

“You can’t control your power yet. What if--” she silenced him with a brief, intense kiss that left him hungry for more.

 

“Don’t worry for me, my prince. I’ll transform when I need to,” she assured him. His hands tightened on her arms, his mind filling with nightmarish images.

 

“What if you don’t? What if they kill you like they killed Gohan? I--”

 

“Then your grief would push you over the edge, beyond Super Saiyan and you would defeat them yourself,” she said, her mouth curled in a wry half smile. Trunks frowned, holding her face between his hands, forcing her to look at him and see the fear that was tearing at his innards.

 

“How can you be so glib about this? If I lost you . . .” he swallowed hard, breaking off and kissing her hard to reassure himself that the androids had no power here. She returned his kiss passionately, hands molding to the planes of his body. Breathlessly, she whispered against his lips, “Trunks, we are bonded. If . . . one of us dies, the other will follow, if the shock alone doesn’t stop the heart.” Some tight knot inside him eased. Her eyes studied his face, slender black brows knitted together, measuring his reaction.

 

“Thank the gods,” he whispered, winding his tail around her thigh, “I was so afraid that I would lose you and have to live on alone, only half of myself. It’s good to know that I won’t be in Heaven long without you.” her face softened in a gentle smile, her white teeth gleaming in the half light.

 

“Will we kill them today?” she asked eagerly. Trunks smiled.

 

“When you transform, you can take 18 if you want,” he said. Her eyes shone and she nipped his chin, fingers trailing on his tail.

 

“ _Koui’ish shar’hah et uny aruori_ , you honor me,” she whispered.

 

“‘My mate with blue eyes,’” Trunks translated, delighted by the ease with which he plucked the correct words from the meager store of his vocabulary.

 

“Very good,” Sansai purred in the rough tones of her native tongue, pressing her body to him, “perhaps you learn best with me astride you. We must test this idea.”  Trunks laughed. Sansai smiled briefly, then sobered.

 

“You are generous to offer, but the kills are yours. It was you who fought them all these years, and lost people you care for to their ruthlessness. As much as I hate that blonde bitch for scarring you, I would not rob you of your kill. I will guard your back, and take pleasure in their deaths.”

 

“My warrior mate, my beloved,” he choked, touched by her thoughtfulness. He caught the wicked gleam in her eyes and shivered in anticipation.

 

“But first . . .” she trailed off, kissing his mouth and sheathing him deep inside her.

 

 

 

 

Trunks learned later the pleasure of showering with his woman, each soapily erotic caress blazing a trail of heat. By the time they emerged, the water was cold and the room clouded with steam. He dressed in the same clothes he had worn the night before cursing his lack of foresight. Nakoto’s shirt was ruined, he saw, buttons scattered like flat pearls on the floor. _He will not be happy with me,_ he thought, donning the tattered shirt sheepishly. A slight shiver ran through him at the memory of Sansai, his hard Saiyan warrior, so soft and pliant under his hands, her darkfire eyes blurring with pleasure as he entered her. . .

 

Trunks cut off this train of thought at the smell floating through the air. The labors of the night had roused his hunger and his mouth filled with water at the heavenly aroma of Mom cooking breakfast. He glanced over to find Sansai dressed and scenting the air like a she-wolf.

 

“What is that? It smells delicious,” she purred. He smiled and linked his hand with hers.

 

“French toast. Mom’s made us a treat.”

 

They emerged and to Trunks’ relief, there was only Mom in the kitchen.

 

“Hey lovebirds! It’s about time you got out of bed!” Mom threw over her shoulder as she expertly flipped thick slabs of toast.

 

Sansai was blushing to the roots of her hair, and quickly busied her hands with setting the table. Supremely relaxed, Trunks was surprised that he felt none of his mate’s embarrassment. Instead there was a grinning smugness in him, a desire to crow to the sun that Sansai was his. Ignoring the dig, Trunks kissed her cheek.  

 

“Good morning, Mom. It smells great, thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome, hun. I’m so happy for the two of you,” she whispered, pecking his cheek.  She turned back to her work, humming a few bars of music under her breath. The flowers he’d given her were in a vase on the table.

 

The smile that touched her lips was soft and thoughtful. Her free hand came up and cupped her belly absently, which was just beginning to swell. Trunks felt an involuntary pang at the gesture, an immitigable jealousy for his baby brother, so safe and secure in the love of both parents.

 

_Your father lays his Empire at your feet, my love. You are his heir and prince of a proud people. That is no little thing._

 

Sansai’s voice rang through his mind, as gentle as a caress of a summer breeze. The truth of it settled into the deep recesses of his heart, even if his head wasn’t ready to acknowledge it. Mom barely twitched when they said they would defeat the androids today. Trunks expected tears, pleas, insults. For Kami’s sake, she had built a time machine to avoid this!

Instead, she simply said, “Don’t die.”

Words to live by.

 

He moved as if in a dream, as he and Sansai dressed with the sun rose bright and gold in the sky. It boggled the mind that he would be here, on the cusp of the greatest change of his life, with a full-blood Saiyan warrior from a different time at his side. He cast a glance at the pristine breastplate on the floor. No, he would go into this battle not as Prince Trunks, but as Trunks Briefs, just as Sansai would enter it not in borrowed human clothes, but as a Saiyan warrior. He dressed in the yellow boots, black pants and muscle shirt his mother had made for him. He swung his sword across his back and tied back his hair.

He was ready.

Sansai reached through the bond and wrapped him in warm tendrils of her spirit, so deep and warm and soothing. The tight fists of dread in his stomach eased. Never again would he face anything alone. He took comfort in that.

Hand in hand, they flew out into the shining morning, seeking to destroy the monsters of nightmares.

*~*

The two androids sat perched on the ruined roof of a house, looking supremely bored. Sansai felt a snarl rise in her throat, felt Trunks’ hand tighten minutely on hers. His emotions were deep and turbulent, mutating quickly from fear to anger, revenge to bloodlust. Her mate released her, drew his sword, and burst into Super Saiyan as they landed. A tremor of admiration raced through her. He looked like a Prince of Saiyans. Sansai reached deep within herself, straining for the power that was now hers as well. She could feel it, molten and gold, hovering just beyond the reach of her thoughts. _Damn!_ She thought viciously.

 

17 and 18 looked up as one and smiled the same wan, evil smile.

 

“Look who’s here, 18. Our friend and his girlfriend. How’s your mood today, Sis?” 17 asked nonchalantly, his soulless blue eyes locked with Sansai’s. The female android rose, brushing dust from her jeans. Her perfect pale features twitched slightly, a glimmer of true emotion through the cold banality.

 

“I’m sick of these two bugging us, 17. I’m tired of it! Let’s just kill them and get it over with.”

 

17 shrugged.

 

“Fine. We’ll kill Blondie, but I get to keep the sword. And his girl. I think I’m in love,” he said, winking at her. Sansai opened her mouth to unleash a scathing retort when Trunks cut in. His voice was the same deceptively soft tone of his father when he was enraged beyond bearing. Gooseflesh stippled her skin at the deadly coolness belaying fierce rage.

 

“You won’t touch her. Neither of you will hurt anyone ever again. I’m going to kill you today.”

 

17’s lips curved.

 

“You sing an old song, buddy. You’ve said that before and you got your ass handed to you. Your friend said that, and we killed him.”

 

A growl rippled from his throat, his thoughts black with murder. Sansai saw flashes of the dark-haired young man with Kakkarot’s face, facedown and bleeding in the rain. _Gohan . . ._ Trunks thought, the word shaking with grief and sorrow. His power deepened, broadened in rage, fiery red smothered in gold.

 

“Today will be different,” Trunks replied, spitting the words through clenched teeth.

 

Suddenly, Sansai was smote by a blow of incredible anguish, dark waves pulsing through the bond, eloquent with all his unspoken fears, the paralyzing terror that belied every action or thought, whispered madness and crazed grief for all he lost. She saw and heard him in pain, screaming in silent suffering at the weakness he saw within himself.

It was intolerable.

Sansai clutched her head, trying to fight, trying to stave off the stream of thought and emotions pouring through the bond. She screamed and seized the gold power sleeping inside her. She burst into Super Saiyan without effort.

 

She shot a look of stunned betrayal at her mate, but there was no time for recrimination as the two androids lunged. Sansai channeled all her anger into her limbs, unleashing the full scope of her power on the blond bitch that left such scars on her mate.

 

She gloried in her speed and strength, the golden light dancing along her skin. She heard the silver slicing of Trunks’ sword and 17’s shouted insults. 18 was distracted momentarily, and Sansai tore a handful of her blond hair from her head with a barked laugh. 18’s blue eyes went wide and she touched the bald spot in disbelief. Her face darkened in rage. Sansai glimpsed the shine a chrome skull beneath a thin layer of arificial skin.

 

“You little bitch! It doesn’t grow back! You’ll pay for that!” she shouted. Sansai smirked.

 

“Don’t worry. You won’t be needing hair where you’re going,” she retorted.

 

The android flung herself forward with renewed fury, marble fists met by Sansai’s gold-shrouded limbs. A cry from Trunks caught Sansai’s attention and 18 caught her with a hammering punch across the face. A solid kick knocked the wind from her lungs and sent her careening through what used to be a family dwelling.

 

Sansai excavated herself from the pink painted wall and rocketed back out into the daylight, hurling blue orbs of ki as she went. They were weak potshots, designed to distract while she closed the distance between them. Her tactic succeeded and Sansai followed through with her signature green blast. In that eerie speed that Sansai couldn’t sense, 18 flashed through the light and caught her with another right hook. Blood wept from her nose and her jaw throbbed. Sansai caught the leg 18 threw and flung her to the ground by it. Winging after her, Sansai planted one foot on her neck.

 

“Move and I’ll snap your neck,” Sansai hissed, swiping blood from her nose.

 

She looked up to find her mate grappling with the dark-haired android, the gold of his aura scorching hair and clothing. 17 tried to throw him away with a sunburst of ki, but Trunks cut through it with ease, propelled by the fury of a lifetime and the power of gods. The two of them flashed across the sky, too fast for the human eye to follow. Sansai heard the echoes of their blows, caught glimpses and flashes of heat from their ki and spent power. In an instant, Trunks grabbed 17’s wrist as his fist shot past and broke his arm with the other fist.

 

With abstract fascination, Sansai watched the android scream.

So they could feel pain.

Good.

18 cried out and threw Sansai off, bursting forward to aid her brother. Sansai phased in front of her, catching the flying fist and crushing it. 18 shrieked, wheeling back, clutching the sparking remnant of her hand.

 

“Where do you think you’re going? What’s the matter, 18, don’t like feeling helpless?” 18 answered with a needle-like blast, which Sansai batted away. Shaking now, 18 flew back, throwing blast after blast. Sansai blurred behind her and kneed her in the center of the back, sending her through the same dwelling Sansai had been thrown. The blond bitch was up in half a heartbeat and together they fought, twisting into savage combinations of foot, fist and knee. Caught in a deadlock, Sansai grinned at her enemy.

 

“What’s the matter, android? Don’t like the feeling of watching a loved one get beaten within an inch of his life? Why don’t you beg for mercy? Maybe, just maybe, Trunks will kill you first, so you don’t have to see him die!” Sansai shouted, throwing her to the ground and holding her there with a beam of ki through the belly.

 

Sansai looked back at Trunks to see a smile of savage elation painted on his face. The light around him was nearly blinding, the reverberations of his fists rumbling like thunder. It looked as if shining meteors lashed out at 17, denting the lithe metal body that had the gall to look human. Her heart tightened at the blood weeping from Trunks’ knuckles, smearing on 17’s pale skin.

 

Words burst from her mate’s lips, seething the so many shades of emotion.

 

“This is for all the people you killed!” a kick to the face.

 

“For my mother!”  A vicious double handed strike that sent 17 spiraling to the ground. Trunks dove after him, bracing his knees on the android’s chest.

 

“For my father!” a blast through the chest, exposing wires and panels, without heart or memory of love. Panting and drunk on the rush of bloodlust, Trunks held the battered head of the android between his hands and roared, _“And this, this is for Gohan!”_

 

In one swift, sharp jerk, 17’s head of ripped from the body. He threw down the head and bellowed to the sky, a strident cry of defiance and victory. Sansai smiled and pulled the beam holding 18 down back into herself.

 

“Try and run,” Trunks rasped, “I’ll chase you. Without 17, you’re nothing. I told you I would tear your head off and crush it. I’m a man of my word.”

 

If an android can look afraid, 18 did. She burst into the sky, only to find the two of them waiting for her.

 

“Go to Hell, 18, if it will even take your kind,” Trunks said, laying his hand gently on her chest. And blew her away with a torrent of gold power. As the shattered husk fell to the ground, Trunks floated down and ripped off her head as he had her brother’s.

 

Releasing the power, he stared at the two destroyed bodies as if frozen. Sansai landed beside him and mastered the blistering power, feeling her body return to normal. Red blood slid down his long fingers and dripped into a small pool at his feet.

 

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, hardly breathed. Even through the bond, Sansai could not glean the tenor of his emotions. He was still and dark, like the surface of the lake they ate by last night. Gently, she reached out and touched his arm with hers, communicating her presence and comfort.

 

The gesture broke the stillness and he swept her up in his arms, crushing his mouth to hers. The embrace was hard, his arms bruisingly tight around her. Swept away in heat of it, Sansai felt the sob of his breath when he broke the kiss to breathe. Joy detonated like a bomb inside him, flooding him with light and feeling.

 

“They’re gone. They’re gone! We did it, Beloved! We . . . I’m free!” he cried, kissing her again and again. She laughed, his joy was infectious.

 

“Yes. At last your enemies are defeated, Trunks. You have avenged them all.” His eyes shone, and he cupped her face.

 

“I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for standing by me.”

 

Sansai smiled, embarrassment warming her face.

 

_Always, my mate. Their shadow will never again haunt you._

*~*

The celebration lasted long into the night. They partied outside, on the soft grass, under the stars, the first such gathering in twenty years. Music and alcohol flowed freely. Food and laughter abounded. Children kicked the severed heads of the androids like toys, once grim-faced adults laughed, and gifts and gratitude were laid at Trunks’ feet like offerings to a savior. He shared the credit, of course, lavishing praise on Sansai for her valor and strength. Bulma caught more than one appreciative glance in her direction. Trunks did too, and the possessive arm around her waist was enough to ward off any further advances.

 

Bulma’s heart flew. At last, there was freedom. At last, there was joy and peace after so many years of strife. The most miraculous change of all was in her son. He couldn’t stop smiling, laughing and kissing Sansai. The Saiyan girl was blushing furiously, a smile of self-conscious pleasure spread across her face. Dances began, and more than one young man approached her with an offer. Bulma refused smilingly, contenting herself with watching the festivities. Out of the corner of her eye, Bulma saw Chi-Chi dancing with Kenji, and saw Master Roshi, Oolong and Puar cheering her on. _Kenji will lead these people well when we go,_ Bulma thought, _they respect him. He will lead these people in rebuilding this world._  

 

Her mind flew ahead to plans of the future. There was still plenty of time to fulfill the Kais’ mandate before her due date. But could she risk going back in time to warn Goku, with little Vegeta resting under her heart? Sansai could not go either. In that time, if Vegeta were to see a full-blood Saiyan woman, he might . . . Bulma cut off that painful train of thought, taking a sip of water. Her eyes were drawn back to her son. Trunks . . . he was perfect for the job. She would talk with him about it later.

 

Bulma watched him dance with Videl with a small smile. She caught Sansai’s puzzled frown and elbowed her way through the crowd to her. Piercing black eyes followed every movement of the two smiling figures on the beaten patch of grass that served as their dance floor. The infatuation in Videl’s face was bittersweet and heartbreaking.

 

“It doesn’t mean anything, Sansai. She’s his friend, and he dances with her out of kindness, politeness,” Bulma explained, laying a hand on her tensed forearm. Some of the tension relaxed from her shoulders, but her frown and drilling gaze did not falter.

 

“There are dozens of eligible males here who want her. Why does she pursue the one who cannot be hers?” Sansai asked, genuinely puzzled. Bulma laughed and Sansai turned to look at her.

 

“‘The _mera’jah_ is one of a very old, sacred caste of oaths. Fidelity to the crown is paramount. It is not unusual for those bound by this oath to forswear mate and children in order to keep their loyalty to the king, queen and royal children pure.’ That’s what you told me when I asked you. You bound yourself to the throne of Planet Vegeta for life, girlie. And love led you to break it. Love makes fools of us all.”

 

A shadow passed over her face. A muscle fire in her jaw and she tore her arm away.

 

“You think I don’t know that? I’ve broken my oath with loving him. I could not cut him from my heart and my honor is in pieces for it. I will be branded a harlot and a liar.”

 

Bulma pursed her lips and snatched Sansai’s hand, holding it between hers. Vulnerability spread across the severe Saiyan features, making her look like the young woman she was. Bulma’s heart softened for this dear girl, her daughter-in-law.

 

“Vegeta chose you to come back with me. He knew the implications. He cares about you, Sansai, and wouldn’t let anyone say such things to you.”

 

Sansai’s face softened slightly and she sighed.

 

“We’ll see.”

*~*

Trunks staggered into bed a handful of hours before dawn. Sansai had retired before him, returning to the same bedroom they’d shared the night before. Trunks shook himself, his head spinning like a top. Too much to drink, too much food, too much half-drunken laughter. He couldn’t remember a time when he felt this relaxed. Only one more thing would make the night perfect . . .

 

Grinning evilly, he snuck over to the bed, staring down at his mate, curled on her side, hand cupped under her face. He admired the tender sight for several heartbeats, then scooped her up, blanket and all, into his arms and blasted out the window. She woke with a start.

 

“Have you lost your mind? Where the hell are you taking me?” she demanded, struggling halfheartedly in his hold, the wind and heat of his ki blowing her hair into his face. He laughed, the sound free and ringing as it had never been before.

 

“My whole life, I never slept outside, for fear that the androids would catch me unaware. Now that they’re dead, I want to make love to you under the stars. We’ll fall asleep joined together,” he said. He saw a minute change in her face, a flash of something streaking through the bond, but it was gone before he could decipher it.

 

“I’d like that,” she whispered.

 

 

 

 

It was a scenic spot, on the grassy rise of a cliff, overlooking the sea. He spread the blanket and undressed her slowly, savoring each glimpse and touch of silky olive-toned skin. He knew from the moment he saw her that passion burned under her stoic reserve, and he felt like a god when she went so soft and giving under his touch. He stoked her slowly, touching her in whispering caresses until her skin burned and her eyes smoldered. She repaid him in kind, torturing him with her kisses and teasing touches. Their tails twined together. It was his control that snapped in the end, and he thrust inside her, riding her with a sweet roughness.

 

They came as one, and he collapsed against her, kissing her parted lips, reaching for her through the bond . . . and felt nothing. No sweet melding of spirit, the wonderful fusion of soul where he could feel her subterranean pulses of her satisfaction, the swelling tide of love, every shade of her emotions and thoughts.

Nothing. He careened over a precipice, expecting the sweet embrace of her soul and earned instead the chill of loneliness.

It scared him.

He sat up, looking into her eyes. They shone overbright with tears. Even as his body pulsed warm and languid with pleasure, his heart was sick with longing and confusion as his soul shivered cold and naked.

 

 _Beloved . . ._ he whispered, a plea, a whispered caress of soul. He felt her shiver, felt the swell of yearning on the edges of his consciousness and the ripples of it break over her face. But she did not answer.

 

“S—Sansai? Why would you--?” he began. One tear leaked from her eye and his heart broke.

 

“You needed to know what it felt like,” she rasped. Sorrow and restrained fury hoarsened her voice. Trunks recoiled at the pain in her voice and in her eyes. His blue eyes narrowed.

 

“What do you mean?” he demanded, hands gripping her shoulders hard, his tail like a vise around her waist.

 

“You . . . you pushed all of your fear and anguish into me. You used my love for you as a weapon against me.” her hand rested over her own heart, knuckles white as if staunching some wound. Trunks swallowed hard, his belly hollowed out with guilt.

 

“I expected to be hurt by the androids. Not you. Vegar above, not you,” she whispered, the last words choked and hoarse with soul-wrenching grief. Trunks’ heart twisted in his chest, along with the bleak knowledge that she was right. His fear for her was a demon that slept within his chest, rising and clawing at him when wakened.

 

“You—you did it deliberately, cut me off from you so I . . .” Trunks accused, his heart squeezed in a tight knot. He broke off, jaw clenching spasmodically. He threw aside his pride and tore down each and every wall that separated him from her; every layer of himself was laid bare under her scrutiny. He felt her shudder, a soft growl of surrender smothered in her throat.

 

“Sansai, I did it to keep you safe. I was so afraid they would hurt you. That you would be unable to transform and--”

 

In a flash, she rolled him over and pinned him, black eyes glittering with unshed tears.

 

“I have pain and anger of my own, Trunks. I hated them for what they did to you, my mate; to your mother who is my friend; to your father who is my liege-lord and protector. What you did to me was cruel. The bond is precious and is not meant to be a tool used to dominate each other . . . you may be more powerful than me, Trunks, but the strength of my mind is nearly unrivaled.”

 

“It’s one of the things I admire most about you,” Trunks whispered conciliatorily, stroking her face absently, “I’m sorry, Beloved. I’m so sorry.”

 

He took her hand and, clumsily in Saiyago said, “I live and die for you, my mate. My heart and my honor are yours.”

 

A soft gasp escaped her lips and the tears shining in her eyes quivered, then fell. He rose up, kissed the tears from her face and growled in primal arousal as she stroked his tail. His head fell back, letting her tease the mark on his throat with her lips and teeth.

 

“Take your vengeance if you must. Oh . . . Beloved . . . Beloved,” he ground out. She did her work well, and left him trembling. She took him within her, stoking the fire inside him. They battled, but as they sank into sleep melded in spirit and body, neither one felt the sting of loss.


	8. A Mysterious Youth

Trunks watched Sansai storm away with a puzzled frown marring his brow. Mom crossed her arms under her breasts, which were beginning to swell with her burgeoning pregnancy. The added strain wore on her, Trunks noted worriedly, taking in dark rings under her eyes and her pallor. More than halfway through her pregnancy, she ate twice as much as she would normally, still pathetically little compared to a Saiyan, but still she looked worn out.

 

“What did I say? She knew I would be the one going back to warn Goku. Why is she mad?” Trunks asked Mom, fingering his shorn locks absently. Mom had conned him into a haircut, shorn short near his skull with a fringe of longer hair tickling his ears and hanging in his face. _We need to make you look your age and relatively harmless. Long hair makes you look all brooding and mysterious,_ his mother chided laughingly.

 

Trunks watched Sansai’s slender figure blast into the evening sky, her tail lashing behind her. He could have gleaned Sansai’s reasoning through the bond, but wanted the conversation. Mom’s insight was always sound. A small, tired smile played at her lips.

 

“Didn’t you see it, Trunks? That flash on her face? She’s afraid for you. Terrified, in fact. I know from experience, Saiyans typically hide their fear behind anger.”

 

“Afraid?” Trunks said, looking up at the fading trail of blue dissipating in a whisper of wind in warm night air. Trunks smiled briefly.

 

“You’re good at catching things like that, Mom.”

 

Her eyes sparkled.

 

“Thanks. I’ve had to be, stuck around you Saiyans. You’re even harder to read than she is,” Bulma said. Pale lavender brows arched in surprise, disappearing under the edging of his bangs.

 

“I am?” he asked. He had always thought his emotions were plain on his face, for all the world to see. Bulma squeezed his hand.

 

“Like your dad in that respect. I don’t see anything you don’t want me to,” she paused, grinning wryly, “except when it comes to Sansai. You have love in your eyes every time you look at her.”

 

He chuckled. Well, that was certainly true.

 

“You’ll be careful, won’t you, Trunks? Sansai’s not the only one afraid for you,” she whispered, dropping her gaze to the swell of her belly. Trunks faced Mom fully and swept her up in a gentle hug.

 

“Of course I will, Mom. Don’t worry. I’m a Super Saiyan, what could hurt me?”

 

 

 

 

He found Sansai on the roof of the compound, looking up at the stars. He set down next to her. She turned and smiled a bit sheepishly.

 

“I shouldn’t have stormed off like that. It is right that you go,” she said by way of apology. Trunks nodded graciously, lacing her fingers with his. Her smile widened and she brushed a few stray pieces of lavender hair from the shoulder of the blue Capsule Corp jacket Mom had given him.

 

“I should have guessed it. I assumed that she would go back, but I see the sense in this. Fewer questions would be raised than with her . . . or me. You might see Frieza.”

 

The name fell from her lips with utter loathing; the dark eddies of her emotions seeping from the bond, outward ripples of a whirlpool that lashed deep within her. Trunks’ hand tightened on hers and he saw as she remembered, the Ice Clan Hyul torturing her, the terrible fall that left in her unspeakable pain, the shade of it haunting her nightmares. _A coward,_ she thought in the deepest recesses of her being, _I’m a weakling coward for fearing something as simple as pain . . ._

 

 _No,_ he said to her through the bond, wrapping her in honeyed comfort, _you are_ not _a coward._ _You are a Super Saiyan, a warrior and goddess in battle._

He opened the thin portal of thought that barred him from her and their souls meshed in the sweet silver mist of the bond. They sank together, until thought and memory were twined so indelibly that Trunks couldn’t tell which life was his. Regretfully, he returned to his own body to find them tangled together, stretched on their backs looking up at the stars. Trunks stroked her hair, feeling a deep and sleepy contentment slide over him, feeling its echo in Sansai.

 

“Tell me something about Planet Vegeta,” he whispered, eyes scanning the brilliant pinpricks of the stars, seeking the one that would be his home. Sansai made a soft sound and arched toward him languorously, like a contented feline.

 

“Well . . .” she purred, choosing her words with a story-teller’s care, “the land is very beautiful, very wild. It’s mostly desert; towering red dunes that stretch as far as the eye can see. Dry, windy heat that wraps around you as tightly as a battlesuit. Cold still nights when the stars seem close enough to touch.”  

Trunks hummed softly in pleasure, enjoying the sound of her voice, low and smoky, the web of word pictures wrapping him in the textures of the home of his forefathers.

 

“Our forests are deep and still, not like here where the trees are young and plentiful. It takes centuries for our trees to grow to maturity. It’s against the law to cut down a tree on Planet Vegeta. Oh, they’re beautiful. With _al’ac_ moss hanging on their branches like silky white hair, and the smell . . . they smell like herbs: a mix between pine and mint. I would like to mate with you under their shade. The stories say it promotes virility.” Trunks chuckled, twining his tail with hers.

 

They lay like that for a long time, drowsily content in each other’s arms, contemplating the path laid before them, rife with potential hazards and joys. At last, he said, “I don’t want you to worry for me. I’m powerful enough and smart enough to take care of myself.”

 

She sighed in supreme contentment, cheek gently nuzzling the underside of his chin.

 

“I know. It’s just that . . .” she whispered. She broke off, exhaling heavily through her nostrils and sitting up. She raked a hand through the wild spikes of her black hair and Trunks admired the angles of her profile, lit by starlight and burnished silver by a slip of white moon. Sansai . . . his beautiful wife. She caught the thought through their connection and blushed. Her gaze met his and all thoughts of a cool and peaceful goddess of night fled. Her eyes burned like black fire, brimming with so many conflicting emotions.

 

“What is it, Beloved?” Trunks asked gently. She sighed again, looking more embarrassed than frustrated.

 

“Well . . .” she began, “In this time you go to . . . I am dead then, along with all of our people, save Kakkarot and your father. But . . . but you are alive, and I thank the Kais for that.” She broke off, groping for words to match her feelings.

 

“You will grow up on Earth. Meet a woman, have her children. It makes me so angry, the thought that some human chit could steal you from me! And what if you meet her here, and she has something I can’t give to you?” she said it with such honest angst that Trunks bit back his laughter. She caught the mirth in his gaze and punched his shoulder not too lightly.

 

“You’re laughing at me!” she cried in mock fury. Kneading his shoulder, Trunks coughed and said, “Let me get this straight: you’re not worried I’ll kill myself facing some unforeseen menace, or that Mom’s ship will malfunction and send me to some godforsaken dimension, you’re worried that  I’ll meet some woman who may or may not be my mate in another timeline, and I’ll what? Forsake the bond I made with you, forget loving you?” she was blushing now, in earnest discomfiture.

 

“Fear is never rational,” she muttered. Trunks cupped her chin, lifted it so her eyes met his.

 

“Let me explain this to you, Beloved. You are the only woman I have ever loved, the only one I’ve ever made love to. And I pity the poor idiot in the other time for never being able to meet you and love you as I do.”

He took her hand, set it over his heart.

 

“I will love you until it stops.”

 

The smile that broke over her face was like the sun rising after a storm. He stopped her before she kissed him and frowned at her in mock seriousness.

 

“Now, Sansai . . . since this is my last night on Earth, would you show pity on me and take me to your bed?”

 

“With the machine, you’ll be back tomorrow,” she pointed out, lavishing kisses on his mark.

 

“True, but it would make me feel better,” he said softly. Her felt her lips curve against his skin.

 

“As you wish, my prince,” she murmured. Together, they slipped through a window into Trunks’ room on the second floor. He laid her down in a pool of moonlight.

 

“Sansai?” he whispered.

 

“What is it, Trunks?” she replied softly, voice hoarsened with arousal. He pressed a kiss to her brow, heartbreakingly sweet.

 

“If I ever meet Frieza, I’ll cut him up and burn the pieces.”

 

Her eyes flashed in the semi-darkness, polished stones of obsidian.

 

“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

*~*

She saw Supreme Kai again in her dreams. One instant she was deep in a dream of flying with Vegeta in Planet Vegeta’s purple sky, then she was on the Kais’ homeworld with Supreme Kai smiling smugly at her. Bulma rose from the ground and dusted grass from the back of her jeans.

 

“Are my dreams your playground now?” she said without rancor. The Kai floated above the ground, red boots hovering a few inches above lush turf, as if he found touching the ground distasteful. He giggled a high, soft sound like the sigh of wings.

 

“No. Your dreams are one dimensional: Vegeta, a little Kakkarot, Trunks or Sansai, then more Vegeta.” the tone of friendliness and gentle mocking surprised Bulma. Had she become a favorite of some sort with this god?

 

“You have done well,” he continued, looking up at the waning moons circling above his planet, his arms folded behind his back, “your son is the perfect candidate and he will do much in deciding that timeline’s future.” Once again, he showed her his gushing waterfall, with shadow and color writhing to life on the surface of the dancing water. In the image, she saw Trunks, as a Super Saiyan, fighting Frieza and a huge Ice Clan.

 

“King Cold, Frieza’s father. I caution you, just as Vegeta and Trunks are at the pinnacle of their power, King Cold will not be so easy to kill in the time you wish to return to. Nor will Cooler,” Supreme Kai said, dark anger coating the soft, childlike tenor. Bulma carefully tucked away these vital tidbits of information, her scientist’s mind whirring at the fascinating possibilities before her, which all human texts suggested only in theory.

 

“Damn it, Trunks! I told him not to interfere!” Bulma glared at the astral image of her son.

 

“Wait. You’re showing me what will be. But what if I tell Trunks not fight the two of them when he leaves tomorrow?”

 

“Then the timeline will change. But Trunks will do well. He will not know of Goku’s new ability, Instant Transmission, which he learned from the Yardrat people. And I dare say Trunks enjoyed this.” Supreme Kai waved his finger and the image changed again, to find the whole Z-warrior group gathered on some windswept plain.

 

Bulma shook her head at the image of herself with bouncy blue curls, and that abysmal orange dress, then giggled at the image of Vegeta in a pink Badman shirt. After that little stunt, he had sworn off Earthling clothes. Seeing her friends alive and well was a pang to her heart. Steady, serious Tienshinhan, and the ever loyal Choutzu, joking Krillin, and Yamcha . . .        

Tears welled in her eyes. She watched Trunks sneak furtive glances at Vegeta, and heard Vegeta snarl with the acidic lash of his mocking humor.

 

_“Why do you keep looking over here? Haven’t you ever seen a pink shirt before? If you like it that much you can have it!”_

 

“Oh baby . . .” Bulma whispered, seeing the admiration in her son’s eyes. The image faded.

 

“He will slip out of the time stream, then reappear three years later to fight with them. He will return to you stronger and wiser,” Supreme Kai told her. Bulma laid a hand on Supreme Kai’s shoulder. The riotously dyed cloth was as airy as a cloud under her hand, the skin beneath humming with strange power. The slanted black eyes widened and Bulma realized that she had probably broken several rules of etiquette. 

 

“Thank you for showing me. You’ve gone through considerable trouble to reassure me.” 

 

Subtly, Supreme Kai shifted away from her touch and smiled, exposing neat white teeth.

 

“I am not entirely benevolent in showing you this. The Kais have vested a considerable interest in the survival of the Saiyans you love. Their power is useful. And you, Bulma of Earth, have considerable influence with them all. When you speak with her, tell Sansai not to fear. Tell her that her soul will be reborn in Gohan and Videl’s daughter Pan.” The image of a little girl in Videl’s arms appeared, with Videl’s cap of dark hair and Sansai’s darkfire eyes. Time slipped by in flashed images and falling water and Bulma saw Pan grown and standing beside the Trunks of that time, the same adoration of Sansai’s glowing in her face.

 

“Trunks will marry her, and they will have many children. Tell her also that Gohan’s soul will reborn in his namesake.”

*~*

Sansai watched the ship disappear in a blinding orb of white light and wound her tail around Bulma’s waist comfortingly. _So this is what he felt,_ Sansai thought, thinking of King Vegeta. The feeling of Trunks within her mind and soul faded, until only the thinnest connection remained, his words fading into silence. Already her heart felt heavy with loneliness. By contrast, only serene calm stirred in Bulma’s heart.

 

“He’ll be fine, Sansai. He’ll return soon.” There was a Seer’s certainty in what she said, and Sansai looked at her in askance.

 

“Supreme Kai visited me again in my dreams. Trunks will come back.”

 

 

 

 

So Sansai waited. When she wasn’t training, or helping Bulma whenever rude muscle was required, Sansai fled to the mountains and wilds, losing herself in the beauty and lushness of the cool, blue world. The compound was too empty without Trunks to fill it, and now that the androids were defeated, humans roamed about in droves, which annoyed her.

A day passed and no Trunks.

 

And another.

 

And another.

 

And another.

 

They passed by in lonely half-life. She ate, she slept, she trained. But without Trunks, her world was painted in gray. She wondered how she had survived the first eighteen and a half years of her life without him.  

 

On the morning of the sixth day, she flew under a golden sun with no aim in particular, thinking perhaps she might swim in the cool sea again, maybe fight one of those toothy sea creatures that Bulma called sharks. The big gray and white ones were fun to grapple with.

 

She froze in the sky, dragged through the bond to a barren plain.

A gold beam winging through the dust.

_Pain!_

Crippling pain in her chest.

_TRUNKS!_ She cried.

 

Blood vomited from her mouth and she heard the sound of Vegeta’s grieving howl before darkness took her.

 

 

 


	9. Farewell

She awoke in her bed at the compound with the sun the reddish cast of dusk outside, Bulma asleep in the chair at her bedside.

 

“My lady?” Sansai croaked, her throat dry. Blue eyes snapped open and profound relief spread across her face, her blue eyes swimming with tears. She leaned forward and swept Sansai up in a fierce hug, her belly round and firm between them.

 

“Sansai? Honey, are you okay?” Bulma whispered into her ear, stroking her hair as if she was a small child who had hurt herself. Sansai patted her back, allowing—and she dare say, enjoying—the ferocity of her embrace and the love it covered.

 

“I’m . . . I’m okay. What happened?” she asked, accepting the glass of water Bulma handed her and draining it in one swig.

 

“You tell me,” Bulma said with an ironic chuckle, setting the glass on the nightstand, “Kenji’s son Nakoto saw you fall out of the sky. When he found you, you were unconscious with dried blood around your mouth. He and the others with him carried you back. Your heart had stopped . . . you were dead. Then, less than an hour later, you just came back. Your vitals were steady . . . so we laid you up here. You’ve been sleeping for about two hours now.”

 

“Dead? That means Trunks--”

 

A shadow passed over Bulma’s face, a shade of grief and Sansai saw how terrifying the past few hours had been for her, knowing that her son was suffering the same as Sansai across time. Sansai grabbed her hand and squeezed.

 

I am well now, my friend. That means Trunks is too.

 

Bulma nodded, smiling gratefully.

 

“Yes. This means he was killed, then wished back. But who killed him, and how? I don’t like this.”

 

Sansai frowned. Her guard had been relaxed. She had been stupid and ignorant, wallowing in her loneliness. This was inexcusable. She resolved to be more vigilant.

 

“I will protect you, my lady, you and the young prince until Trunks comes back. Then we can go home.”

 

Bulma smiled, one hand stroking the small mound of her belly.

 

“I know you will, Sansai. You’re very good at it.”

*~*

The muted light of star and moon greeted him after the blinding flash of white that accompanied the machine’s travel. Below, he saw Mom run from the hangar, squinting up at the sky. Joy and relief sluiced across her face, and her arm pumped back and forth in a wild wave. Trunks laughed, the sound reverberating through the tiny cockpit. He maneuvered the machine down, landing carefully. He leapt out and flew into Mom’s arms, tears pricking the backs of his eyes.

 

“Hi Mom, I made it,” he whispered.

 

“Thank the gods, oh sweetheart, I missed you,” she whispered him, squeezing with all her strength. He pulled back to look at her.

 

“Your hair!” they said at the same time, then laughed. Mom’s hair, so lustrous and long, hanging all the way to her waist, had been cut so that the ends tickled her shoulders. Trunks had passed on Young Mom’s offer of a haircut after exiting the Hyperbolic Time Chamber, and it hung to his favorite length at his shoulders.

 

“I like it,” Trunks said, gesturing to her shorn locks.  His gaze darted around, everything was still intact. Ever since Cell killed him, worry had gnawed at his belly for his mom and . . .

 

“Where’s Sansai?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer, but instead reached through the bond.

 

Sansai! He cried, slamming into her with all the force of a falling meteor, and dissolved in the sweetness of intimacy after so long alone. Trunks never realized how lonely he was until he couldn’t reach out and touch her, or whisper his thoughts to her through the bond. Her joy and love overwhelmed him and for one second he was absorbed completely into her, concealed in the shades of her emotions. He watched her stagger up from the bed where she lay, burst into Super Saiyan, and fly through the window and around the house.

 

Trunks saw the golden star of her and opened his arms. She flew into them, bowling him over. Tangled together, they laughed and kissed and embraced. In her ascended state, her kisses tingled with electricity, touching her was like holding fire in the circle of his arms. Trunks felt subterranean rumbles of desire begin to weaken his limbs. It had been so long, trapped in that infernal chamber without even the bond to comfort him . . . as the kisses deepened, Mom cleared her throat.

 

“As happy as I am for you two, I’d rather not scar my psyche with too many mental images,” she said wryly.

 

Trunks chuckled, shaking his head to clear it. Having Sansai nestled so intimately on top of him wasn’t easy for him and he squeezed her upper arms in a gentle request to rise. She hissed in a breath through her teeth and leapt up, powering down. Trunks rose with a frown, his eyes latching onto the bandage around her right forearm, the white cloth stained with a large circle of red.

 

“Kami! What happened to your arm, Sansai?” Trunks demanded, gently unwinding the soiled bandage. It looked like a stab or puncture, a ragged hole an inch wide through the meaty portion of her forearm. What was more alarming, however, was the black rim along the wound’s edges. He made a sympathetic noise in his throat, kissing the warm skin on the back of her hand.

 

“It was Cell,” Sansai said and Trunks’ teeth ground together in suppressed rage, “I sensed him on the outskirts of the compound and flew to meet him. He was looking for the androids and, when I told him they were dead, he attacked me. Idiot. He was no match for me. When I’d beaten the hell out of him, he shot out his tail and stabbed me. Then I blasted him.”

 

“Incinerated every bit of him is more like it. My mighty Saiyan protector was a bit put out that he landed a hit,” Mom put in with an affectionate smile.

 

“Why hasn’t she been in the regen tank?” Trunks growled. Now, with euphoria of the reunion fading, he felt how much it hurt her, throbbing with spiteful pulses of pain.

 

“She has. There is some kind of toxin in the wound that my tank can’t heal. She was in for an hour with no change,” Bulma said worriedly. Trunks took in Sansai’s appearance. With the flush of the greeting fading, he saw her pallor, the dark rings under her eyes. Panic gnawed a hole in his belly.

 

“What about Senzu?” Trunks asked, already groping for the bean hidden in his shirt.

 

“I tried that. It gave her energy and closed the wound, but the poison just reopened it within minutes.” Mom said. 

 

“How long ago was the fight?” he asked, embracing his mate gently. She felt too cool, and almost fragile. This terrified him more than anything. He longed to absorb her into himself and keep her safe forever.

 

“This morning,” Sansai mumbled, tucking her head into its favored place on his chest. The demon of fear woke and began to writhe, burrowing into his heart. 

 

“What do we do? What can we do?” Trunks asked, the panic edging into his voice. Bulma’s blue eyes latched onto the time machine.

 

“We need to get her to Planet Vegeta as soon as possible. Their tanks can heal practically anything, and if they can’t, then the techs will know what to do.”

 

Trunks was given the mental image of a rusty handsaw poised over Sansai’s arm, the black poison creeping up her arm. He couldn’t bear to see her so maimed. He would cut off his own arm first.

 

“Then we have to leave now,” Trunks said decisively. Mom laid a gentle hand on his arm.

 

“Hun, I know you’re worried about her, we both are--”

 

“I don’t appreciate you two talking over my head like I’m a child, or addle-brained. I’m fine,” Sansai insisted, but Trunks heard the lack of conviction in her own voice, under the raspy tones of irritation.

 

“When we leave,” Bulma said, over Sansai’s dark head, “we’ll never come back. This is your home, with people you care about here. Don’t you want to say goodbye?” Trunks frowned, then shook his head. He had fought and bled to give this world freedom, but his place was with Sansai, with his mother and . . . and his father who had come to understand in the other time.

 

I avenged you against Frieza, Father, he thought, and I will fight beside you anywhere in the galaxy.

 

“What would I tell them? The truth is too crazy. I’ll write them a letter while we pack,” he said. Bulma smiled gently and produced an envelope.

 

“Here, put yours with mine,” she said. Her blue gaze darted over Sansai with a flash of worry, then settled with a scientist’s steel on the time machine.

 

“Kami, I don’t know how we’re all going to fit. The cockpit was made for one, not three.”

 

“Four,” said a voice from the shadows. Trunks stepped in front of Sansai and Mom as a reflex, but relaxed when Mrs. Son stepped out of the pool of shadow cast by the compound.

 

“Chi-Chi?” Bulma said, noting the pack slung over her shoulder.

 

“Did you think you could sneak off in the middle of the night like a thief? I told you I was going back with you and I am a woman of my word. And don’t think you’re going to talk me out of it.” She said it with such authority that Mom only sighed.

 

“Knowing you, you would cling to the hull if we tried to leave you behind,” Bulma said with a wry grin. She threaded a hand through her short hair and blew out a breath.

 

“All right. Let’s get to work.”

 

 

 

 

They packed everything but the clothes on their backs into microcapsules, which Mom stowed in her satchel. As they worked, sorted and capsulated, Trunks told his story, beginning with meeting Goku and ending with being wished back at Kami’s Lookout.

 

“Father defended me in battle. Yamcha said that he went crazy and attacked Cell with no hope of winning,” Trunks said, his eyes glazed with pride and admiration. Mom smiled and squeezed his shoulder. 

 

“Now I’m doubly glad I killed Cell,” Sansai rasped, cradling her arm. It was bleeding more swiftly, soaking through the new bandage. Trunks laid his hands on her shoulders and pushed some of his energy into her. Their minds met and tangled, and Trunks saw a pulsing wound on her spirit as well as her body, her ki was . . . fractured.

 

You’ve ascended again, my love, she saw in his memories. He smiled, wrapping her in an embrace of warmth, love and longing.

 

Not quite. But I am close.

 

“All right. Let’s do this thing,” Bulma said. Trunks set their letters on the kitchen table, one marked for Videl by the watering can.

 

The four of them filed outside. A sliver of moon had risen high, and Trunks flew up breathing in Earth’s air for the last time. The slightest tinge of regret lanced his heart, but he looked down at Mom and Sansai and thought of his father. He had a family. Anywhere, anywhen that they were, was home.

 

Piling into the tiny cockpit was a struggle. Mom was at the controls, Trunks and Sansai sandwiched behind her, and Mrs. Son crammed against the panels. The hatch barely, just barely, closed around them.

 

“This is ridiculous,” Mrs. Son muttered. Mom craned her head to look at her.

 

“I’m sorry, Chi-Chi. Stupid me, I should have thought about roomier seats in between the algorithms of time travel,” Mom said scathingly. Mrs. Son blushed and lowered her eyes in contrition.

 

“All right,” Mom continued, her voice muffled in the close space, “this is a time machine, not a Cessna, so try not to touch anything. Now,” a glint of humor darted into her blue eyes, “please make sure that your tray tables are in their upright and locked position. Thank you again for choosing Air Time Machine.”

 

Mom keyed in the startup code and the machine whirred to life, panels glowing and lights blinking. They rose in the air, high above the compound and Trunks savored the peaceful glimpse of Earth spread out beneath him.

Then all was lost in the whirring and blaze of white light.

 

 

 

 

Trunks blinked at the vision of lush green spread before him, with torrential waterfalls and several moons hovering on the horizon. He had expected his new home to be . . . well, a desert.

 

“This isn’t Planet Vegeta,” Sansai said.

 

“No,” Bulma said, “this is the Supreme Kai’s homeworld.”

 

“Is . . . is that possible?” Mrs. Son whispered. Bulma shrugged, powering down the machine and opening the hatch. Cool air wafted over them, smelling of flowers. Trunks gathered Sansai in his arms and leapt to the ground. Sansai looked stronger, but still her wound remained. Trunks turned back and helped Mom and Mrs. Son down. As he did so, Mom pinched Mrs. Son’s arm.

 

“Ow! What was that for?” Mrs. Son snapped. Bulma smiled.

 

“Sorry. I was just checking. So we’re not dreaming. This is real.”

 

A short, purple-skinned youth that Mom described as Supreme Kai appeared before them. His smile was wide, liquid black eyes almost closed. Trunks frowned at the Kai. Diminutive and scrawny, at first estimation Trunks thought he could take him in a fight. But upon deeper inspection, Trunks was floored by the power cloaking him as surely as his eccentric clothes. Sansai overcame her shock first and had the manners to bow.

 

“Honorable Supreme Kai,” she whispered. The Kai’s gaze softened.

 

“You are a credit to your race, Sansai. Your wound is a poor reward.”

 

“Will you heal her, then, as you did my mother?” Trunks asked, a protective arm around his mate’s shoulders. Supreme Kai frowned, his eyes carrying the sadness of millennia.

 

“I will not. Her suffering is necessary.”

 

Anger flashed, burned white hot in his veins. Trunks stepped forward, shaking his fist. Kai or no, it was cruel to let her suffer!

 

“Necessary for what, Supreme Kai? What good could possibly happen with her injured like this?” he spat, blazing with fury.

 

“Trunks,” Mom and Sansai said at once, caution in their voices. The Kai hardly seemed fazed.

 

“Your desire to save your lifemate pain is good. But I see time in its fullness, the entire tapestry of it spread before my eyes. You will soon see what it will bring very soon.” Supreme Kai’s voice was cool and soft, like green moss and somehow it diffused the anger smoldering in his heart.

 

“But I am not without mercy. Time has no hold here, the poison will not spread and pain will not trouble her. Now,” he made a small gesture of his hand and with a ripple, a tall figure appeared out of thin air. Towering over them all, his hair was white and red skin lined with heavy folds, narrow eyes glaring. His clothing and earrings were similar to the Kai’s, and his fighting power was much higher.

 

“This is Kibito. He is my manservant and trusted friend. He will attend your needs. Bulma of Earth, you have fulfilled your end of the bargain, with some exceptions,” Kai said with an edge of amusement, looking at Mrs. Son.

 

“You all may refresh yourselves and when you are ready, Kibito will take you to Planet Vegeta.”

 

Kibito, the silent and looming manservant, was very generous. He led them to a low table laden with food and drink beside a waterfall with a willow nearby for privacy. From what Trunks could see, there were no manmade structures, or even any wildlife, only a planet lush with vegetation. Sansai’s color had returned and she even ventured a smile, eyes smoldering with something Trunks had come to recognize. Mom and Mrs. Son shared a setup similar to where Trunks and Sansai were led some distance away, and the Supreme Kai seemed deep in conversation with Mom.

 

After he and Sansai had eaten, Trunks stepped inside the shade of the willow and deployed the capsule holding his armor, sword and clothes and pulled off his jacket and shirt. He heard the soft thud of Sansai’s step behind him on the thick grass; saw out of the corner of his eye her armor, boots and battlesuit fall to the ground.

 

He tensed, then shivered at the feel of Sansai’s warm fingers grazing a gentle trail down his back to his tail. Desire coiled tight inside him, his body already wakening to her touch. Gods, it had been so long . . . logic tried to nudge its way into his brain, tell him that this was neither the time nor place for such indulgence, but his body had other ideas. One hand reached around and stroked his belly, sliding down to clasp him lightly through his pants.

 

“Sansai . . .” he began, pleading, but for her to stop or continue, he wasn’t sure. She stood on tiptoe; her naked chest pressed to his back and did something sinful to his ear with her tongue.

 

“It’s been two years for you, my prince. Don’t you want me?” she rasped, working his pants and underwear down. The evidence of his desire was in her hand.

 

“Gods, of course I do, Sansai! But . . . we shouldn’t--” the calluses on her hand created exquisite friction as she kneaded him very gently. He groaned.

 

“Your arm . . .” he choked, repeating the words over and over in his head in order to keep from spilling himself in her hand like a callow youth. She kept her strokes deliberately light, and Trunks arched his hips helplessly in time with them.

 

“How many times must I tell you? I feel fine,” she whispered, nipping the back of his neck reprovingly. He wrapped his tail around her thigh, the tip probing just inside and she gasped. Hot, wet and ready. A shiver of raging need tore through him. He turned around, swept her up and pinned her to the smooth trunk of the tree. His blue eyes pierced hers, and he felt the pulsing of her desire through the bond and love shining as bright as the stars.

 

“I love you,” he whispered, sliding inside her. Embraced in heat and taut muscle, he threw back his head, a broken sound of surrender escaping his lips. Her lips pressed gently to his corded throat, hands drawing soothing circles on his back. He drew out the pleasure, thrusting slowly, watching her eyes.

 

“I love you . . . I love you . . . Trunks . . . gods, Trunks,” Sansai whispered and his heart sang with joy. It was first time she had said the words to him. She took it for granted, thinking the bond was enough to explain. Something human in him needed the words spoken. He kissed her face, her throat, her breasts, tasting the salt of her sweat. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as she neared completion and he gave himself over to instinct, pumping inside her wet heat, reopening the mark on her neck to taste her blood. She climaxed, shuddering in racking spasms. His hunger sharpened by time, he bucked his hips, needing more. Climax shimmered before him and he struggled to stave it off, to savor each second.

 

“Look at me, Beloved,” he choked. She obeyed, lifting glazed eyes to his. His thrust grew rougher, more erratic, and he lost himself in her dark eyes. Pleasure crept down his spine, settling in a tight ball in his loins. With a cry, he bathed her womb with his seed and together they sank down to the grass. Chest heaving and heart hammering, Trunks lay with his eyes closed, aftershocks echoing through his body. Warm wetness dripped on his belly and he mustered the energy to open his eyes and find Sansai’s arm bleeding, the scrap of cloth soaked through. She felt the lash of his anguish through the closeness of their connection and looked up. The corner of her mouth curled.

 

“My heart rate sped up. Don’t worry, it’ll clot,” she reassured him, kissing his chest over his heart. Stroking her back, he asked softly, “You’re not in any pain?”

 

“Feeling pretty damn good. And you?”

 

“Perfect,” he replied, “Come on, we’d better bathe and get ready. Mom’ll be anxious to get back.”

 

They bathed in the waterfall, which, blessedly, was as warm as bathwater. As Sansai pulled on her tattered raiment, Trunks dressed with great care. He wore the black pants his mother made for him, and his black shirt. Over it he pulled on the armor his father had given him. Sansai helped him with the buckles and snapped on his sword. He replaced the dirty yellow boots with Saiyan boots, white with gold tips. As a finishing touch, he donned his medallion and tied back his hair. Sansai was beaming.

 

“You’ve always been a prince to me. Now everyone will see it too,” she said, kissing him. Together they emerged from their grove to find Mom dressed in a flowing royal blue gown, short hair bound with her ivory combs. Mrs. Son’s black hair flowed down to her waist, and she wore a modest dress of siren red. Supreme Kai and Kibito stood off to one side, watching the proceedings.

 

“My lady,” Sansai whispered, “you look lovely.” Mom smiled brilliantly, a devious glint to her eye.

 

“Thank you. My, Sansai, you have some nice color to your cheeks. You too, Trunks.”

 

Trunks smirked.

 

“Kibito, help our young Saiyan friend with her clothing,” Supreme Kai said softly.

 

“Yes, venerable Kai,” growled the tall man and Trunks watched in fascination as he used some strange ability to alter Sansai’s tattered clothing for a clean black battlesuit and ceremonial armor, white with Planet Vegeta’s crest over the heart.

 

“A vast improvement,” said the Kai, “Farewell. May the good spirits keep you safe.”              

*~*

Vegeta sat up in bed, shouting his mate’s name. Chilling terror ran through his veins, his heart pounding beneath sweat-soaked skin.

Gone!

He felt nothing through the bond, only black emptiness, as dark and sucking as the greedy tug of a black hole. He was alone! Alone . . .

Vegeta sensed a presence and his keen Saiyan sight cut through the gloom to find a short, purple skinned lad standing at the foot of his bed.

 

“You!” he roared, flying at the Supreme Kai and landing a hard hit across the face. Supreme being or not, he felt real enough and fell onto the lush carpet of Vegeta’s chamber.

 

“Where is she, you little purple freak?!” he roared, blazing through both levels of Super Saiyan. Vegeta struck at the Kai again, only to be blocked by a wave of blue energy emanating from the boy’s hands. With a wave of his hand, Vegeta was struck immobile. The boy’s liquid black eyes burned with fury and Vegeta’s emerald eyes glared right back. Vegeta thrust his mind out at the boy, seething with anger and fear.

 

Where have you taken my mate, brat?

 

The boy’s eyes narrowed and one delicate hand touched the contusion growing on his cheek, healing it.

 

You are very powerful, son of Planet Vegeta, and your concern is admirable. But you are a rude and intemperate man. If you are not careful, those traits could lead to your demise. Your mate is safe. She will arrive here at dawn.

 

Connected as intimately as they were, Vegeta could not hide to flush of joy rushing through his being, or his impatience with the hours that separated them. The boy smiled smugly and Vegeta wanted very much to punch him again.

 

Answer my question, Kai. Where is my mate? What about the brat and my vassal, Sansai?

 

Impatience, suspicion, violence. It is indeed a good thing that Bulma is the other half of your soul, King Vegeta. They are on my homeworld.

 

The logic was sound. He hadn’t been able to feel his woman before when she rested on the Kais’ world.

 

Did you come here to tell me this? Or to berate me for my faults?

 

The brat had the nerve to smile.

 

If I release you, will you swear on your honor not to hit me?

 

Vegeta narrowed his eyes, considering, and then smirked.

 

Very well. I swear as King of the Saiyans.

 

The vise loosened from his limbs and he powered down. Crossing his arms, he glared down his nose at the boy.

 

“Speak your peace, Supreme Kai,” he demanded. Deep purple color flooded the boy’s face and Vegeta realized belatedly that he was naked. He didn’t frankly care if he offended the Kai, but yanked on a pair of gi pants in case someone came in.

 

“I came in part to reassure you of your family’s safety, but also to say that dark forces gather against you. Remember, in the darkest hour, two will be one and the sun will light the way. Heed my words, King Vegeta, and you will live to see your son grow tall.”

 

Vegeta opened his mouth to ask a question, but Supreme Kai was gone. The king sat sleepless, turning the words over and over in his head until the gold of the sun touched his shoulders.

*~*

There was no time to feel nerves as Kibito laid his hand on her shoulder and pulled her through time and space. A second later, they were standing on the landing platform, Planet Vegeta’s desert sun casting bloody beams of light as it rose from a nest of orange clouds. Her heart skipped several beats at the sight of Vegeta standing only a few steps away, arms crossed and smirking. Dimly, she registered the forms of his squad behind him and restrained herself from running into his arms. While it would be eternally satisfying, and these were men he trusted, she was to be queen, and she needed to show them she respected Saiyan restraint.

 

Through the bond, they crashed together will all the laughing joy of Trunks and Sansai hours earlier. She sank into his memories and emotions and drowned in him and he in her. It was better than any paltry embrace of flesh, but still Bulma longed to feel his arms around her, to at last make him real after so many phantoms.

 

Woman, you look good enough to eat, his voice deepened with arousal and Bulma felt the outward ripples of his whetted hunger. She couldn’t stifle the smile, or the flirtatious toss of her head.

 

Why thank you, coming from a Saiyan, that’s quite a compliment. You don’t look so bad yourself. I’m never leaving you again, Vegeta. Not even the Kais could tear me away.

 

She thought she saw the smirk broaden for an instant into a full smile, but he quickly hid the expression. He crossed the platform, regally, she thought, and stopped, the wind tugging at his red cape and the king’s medallion around his neck. Vegeta’s black eyes met Trunks’ blue ones and Bulma’s heart rejoiced at the happiness and pride she felt from Vegeta. None of it showed on his face, but for his eyes, which shimmered with it.

 

“Brat,” he grunted and that small acknowledgment made Trunks’ chest swell, “the garb of a prince suits you.”

 

Trunks inclined his head respectfully and in perfect Saiyago, said, “I thank you, Father. I will strive to be worthy of my proud Saiyan heritage.”

 

Bulma felt his pride and his pleasure through the bond. Vegeta’s eyes slid from Trunks to Sansai. Bulma was snapped from the joy of her reunions at the thought and looked too. She wore the armor of an Elite well, but blood from her wound soaked the bandage and trickled down her wrist. Dark circles stood out like bruises under her eyes, her pallor returned. Even her erect posture was slightly slumped. At her king’s scrutiny, she bowed, her right arm crossed over her chest. She winced as she did so, and straightened quickly, smearing blood on the pristine white of her chestplate.

 

“Sire,” she said.

 

“How were you injured, brat?” Vegeta asked, the words gruff and irritated even though Bulma could feel the concern emanating from him. Trunks laid a hand on her shoulder and said, “She fought a cruel enemy. He stabbed her in desperation and now his poison courses through her. We need a regen tank, something, anything.”

 

The edge of protective desperation in his voice was a red flag to them all. The reaction was explosive. Kakkarot leapt forward and Bulma heard Chi-Chi’s gasp. Kakkarot only had eyes for Sansai, however.

 

“This is the Saiyan you wanted? This purple-haired half-breed?” he spat, glaring daggers at Trunks. Bulma staggered back as Kakkarot and Sansai burst into Super Saiyan, the latter with some difficulty. Trunks remained still, eyes locked with Kakkarot’s.

 

“Watch your mouth, third class,” Vegeta hissed, black eyes narrowed, “you address my son as such again and I’ll kick your skull in.”

 

“I never cared for you as you wanted me to, Kakkarot, and I am sorry for that. But Trunks is my chosen mate and your prince. You will show him respect,” Sansai rasped, then dropped back to her normal form, panting and clutching her arm. Bulma skirted the group and laid a hand on her arm. Her mouth twisted into a reluctant smile.

 

“I’m fine, my lady. I just . . .” she closed her eyes, mustered her indomitable will, “I need a moment.”

 

“Though I appreciate you defending me, Father, Sansai, I can speak for myself. I think Kakkarot was only making an observation. I, as you can see, have purple hair, and am a proud son of both the humans and the Saiyans. If he cares challenge me for the right to Sansai, I will gladly take him up on it,” Trunks said in a deadly calm voice, eyes as keen and bright as the edge of a blade. Kakkarot’s emerald gaze darted to Sansai. 

 

“Get her to a tank. We’ll finish this later,” Kakkarot said, powering down. He was about to storm away when he caught sight of Chi-Chi. His brow furrowed in confusion and closed his eyes, as if rooting through his memory for something. He opened them and said hesitantly, “Chi-Chi?”

She broke out into a beaming smile and leapt into his arms.

 

“Goku! Oh Goku, I knew you would remember me. I--”

 

Gently, he peeled her off much as he had Bulma when she jumped on him at their first meeting. Gods, was that only six months ago? Bulma felt the questing probe of Vegeta in her mind and she showed him all that had transpired.

 

Ah, Kakkarot’s black-haired harpy . . . interesting.

 

“Chi-Chi . . .” he whispered, eyes glassy with memory. His mouth opened and closed, then he blast into the sky without another word, streaking like a golden comet through orange clouds and purple sky.

 

“Goku!” she screamed after him, then collapsed in a faint. Bulma rushed over to her and gestured for one of the techs hovering nearby.

 

“Take her to my rooms and stand guard over her,” Bulma commanded. The spry tech turned its beady green eyes to Vegeta.

 

“Obey your queen,” he growled and the tech slung Chi-Chi over his shoulder and scurried away. Bulma rose and gathered some of her dress to walk over to Vegeta, taking foolish pleasure in his scent and closeness.

 

“Vegeta, we need to get her to the Med Center as soon as possible--”

 

“Sansai!” bellowed a familiar voice.

*~*

“Now what?” Trunks growled, gripping his sword and turning toward the voice. His gaze swept upward and saw a burly figure outlined by the rising sun above them.

                                            

“What are you doing here?” Father growled and Trunks felt a foolish little thrill at being here and meeting the man he had seen in the other time. This was his father, this regal king, not the haunted warrior who lived in Goku’s shadow—at least in his own mind. A Saiyan in second class armor landed and took in the scene. A scar darted across his right eye. He bowed to the king, then zeroed in on Sansai.

 

“I call on my debt, cousin of Broly,” he rumbled, his voice like stones being ground together.

 

“Keyuka,” Trunks said, earning a glance from Father. He released the hilt of his sword and elaborated, “Zuki’s brother, he swore an oath ofturash’ya against Broly, Sansai’s cousin. I take it Broly is still alive.”

 

Vegeta smirked. 

 

“That’s right, brat. Keyuka and that stupid third class Kakkarot let him get away. Again.”

 

Keyuka raised one fist, glittering with a silver chain.

 

“I call my debt from you,” he spat on the ground between his and Sansai’s boots. Conflicted emotions snarled within Sansai: anger and fear, hatred and relief.

 

“Keyuka, Zuki was my brother as much as he was yours. Do you really think he would want you to kill me for him?”

 

Keyuka’s face twisted, then a maddened light entered his eyes.

 

“It’s your fault, Sansai! If it wasn’t for you, my brother would still be alive! Are you too afraid to fight me?” he snarled.

 

“No, but I am much, much stronger than you, Keyuka. If we fight, I’ll have to kill you. I don’t want to.” Sansai replied softly.

 

“Humph. As arrogant as your cousin. Fight me!” he challenged. She sighed, the sorrow of lifetimes in her black eyes.

 

“Very well,” she said. Both rose in the air and rocketed toward the Capital. Trunks stared after them mutely, then turned to Father.

 

“They’re fighting now? Sansai’s injured, we have to get her to a regen tank. Father, stop this!” he cried. Father’s arms crossed over his chest and the angled planes of his face tightened slightly.

 

“I cannot. Turash’ya is forever, brat. If Sansai—or any other—were to attempt to postpone the match for an injury, she would be branded a weakling and a coward. She would lose her honor forever. She is strong. She will endure this.”

 

Trunks looked up at the fading trail of Sansai’s ki and felt the brokenness in her spirit. Every time she accessed her power, she was hurting herself. Kami knew what would happen when she fought . . . Trunks growled and blasted off the platform after his mate. All he could do now was watch.

 

 

 

 

Word spread quickly; the stone arena was already half full when Trunks arrived with his father, mother, and General Raditz, the remaining member of Father’s squad. Trunks’ eyes latched on her slender figure standing tall on smooth white and gold tiles of the arena’s floor.

 

Be strong, Beloved. I am here, he whispered to her. He felt her trepidation calm and warm gratitude enveloped him.

 

Thank you, my prince. For understanding my foolish, violent Saiyan notions. That tells me you love me—all of me.

 

The arena soon filled to capacity and Trunks looked out, scanning the faces of his people. It was no wonder his hair and eyes were considered odd, he saw a sea of dark-haired, dark-eyed people, of varying sizes and shapes, all with tails like his. The only truly discernable difference was the color of their armor: white and gold for Elites, black and gold for second class, black and brown for third. Their eyes stared back at him just as intensely, judging and weighing him against the impressive image of his father.

 

The royal box was closest to the arena floor, respective tiers separated by class. Plush cloth of vibrant colors shaded the box, with a banquet laid to one side. Raditz helped himself, his plate balanced on his tail as both hands piled food onto it. There were two artistically carved chairs: one for the king and queen. Trunks cut a glance at Mom. Some of her hair had fallen from the combs during the flight, and her hands were folded, white-knuckled in her lap. Other than that, Trunks could discern no nervousness from her, only a serene queenly calm.

 

Father stepped forward and the raucous noise quieted. His image was projected onto the large screens at every cardinal point in the arena.

 

“Sons and daughters of Planet Vegeta!” he yelled, and the crowd greeted him with throaty shouts, “my mate, the lady Bulma, has returned from her journey to Earth and brought with her, my son, Prince Trunks! Greet him!” Trunks kept his face impassive as his image was projected, to mixed shouts and jeers. A discreet growl emanated from Father’s throat and he half turned, black eyes blazing into Trunks’.

 

“Show them,” he commanded. Trunks nodded and stepped effortlessly into Super Saiyan, careful not to flare his aura too wide for fear of harming Mom. Father ascended as well, then to Super Saiyan 2, aura hot and tight around his body. Muted chirps and explosions burst through the silent arena as scouters exploded.

 

“Listen and listen well, my people. The Earthling Bulma is my queen and the son she bore me will be my heir. He is the Legendary as I am. Now, we are here to witness the calling of the debt of turash’ya by Keyuka, son of Oni against Sansai, daughter of Aspar and cousin of Broly,” Father waved a hand and the official below shouted the preliminaries into a microphone.

 

Father powered down and took his seat beside Mom. She took his hand with easy familiarity on the throne’s arm and some tension seeped from the taut planes of his face. White gloved fingers tightened on Mom’s pale, long-fingered digits. Discreetly, Trunks saw Father’s tail wind around Mom’s ankle. That simple contact was more than Trunks had ever seen the other Vegeta give Young Mom. The other Vegeta also wouldn’t have claimed him so publicly, at least, not when Trunks still had breath in his lungs. This Vegeta was different. At the crook of a gloved fingertip, Trunks took his place at his father’s right hand. 

 

With some grumbling, the crowd settled down for the fight. Power, Trunks thought, was the only road to respect with his people. They would accept him eventually, he thought, he would prove himself to them all. He snapped his attention to the arena below, where two officials were removing Sansai’s and Keyuka’s armor, smearing balm on their faces and checking teeth and hands.

 

“Since this could be a death match, the officials are making sure there are no blades hidden away, and the balm makes punches slide so they can fight longer,” Father explained, but whether to Trunks or Mom, he wasn’t sure. His black eyes remained trained on the two combatants. Trunks leaned forward slightly, watching as the two leapt to opposite ends of the ring. The main official looked up at the box and Vegeta’s hand twisted in a strange gesture. The crowd roared in approval.

 

“Begin!” shouted the announcer, and Keyuka and Sansai leapt at one another. Sansai made the first foray, ramming an elbow into Keyuka’s face, breaking his nose and spilling blood with the first blow. Trunks chuckled under his breath, berating himself for his foolish fear. If his mate was strong enough to kill Cell, she could put this idiot down for the count, poisoned or not. Together, they zipped to and fro, trading ferocious combinations of a style Trunks now knew to be Saiyan: clean, sharp exchanges of merciless blows. The crowd cheered at each landed hit.

 

Through the bond, he heard the words they spoke to one another.

‘This fight is foolish, my squad-brother. I’ve always been the better fighter,’ Sansai said, delivering a vicious knee to the gut to prove it. In response, Keyuka hurled an orb of red ki at her. She swiped it away with her right arm, wincing as she did so. Keyuka noticed and grabbed at her. Sansai dodged and struck out with a swift scissor kick, knocking him back. Keyuka zipped behind her and seized her in a lock, thick fingers digging into the wound. A scream of anguished pain shattered the air. A soft growl rippled from Trunks’ throat, an entirely Saiyan sound of protective anger.

‘Scream!’ Keyuka was saying, ‘Your cousin had Zuki by the throat when he blasted him. He couldn’t scream. Scream for someone to save you!’

 

“Get out of it, girl. Get out of it, damn it!” Vegeta hissed. As if hearing him, Sansai slammed her elbow back, catching Keyuka in the temple. Whirling around, she ascended into Super Saiyan and rammed him back into the wall with a blast, hoarse screams ripping from her throat. Sounds of awe and surprise rippled through the ranks, especially from the Elite section.

 

“Something’s wrong,” Trunks said, “ascending, using ki, it’s hurting her too much. The poison . . . broke her ki somehow. At this rate, she won’t have anything left.”

 

“And Keyuka intends to kill her,” Father finished bluntly, his eyes hard as black granite.

 

“I won’t let that happen,” Trunks promised darkly, “Turash’ya or no. She is my bonded mate.”

 

Vegeta’s eyes widened slightly, then stilled into that stoic Saiyan mask.

 

“Bonded. Hmm. We will see what we will see. Sansai is no weakling.”

 

Trunks looked back down, his chest tight at the sight of Sansai on her knees, panting, blood dripping from her arm into a small pool on the white tile. Keyuka, charred and bleeding from a wound on his stomach, excavated himself from the crater and flew low over the ground at Sansai, scooping her up her throat and whirling her around. He released her and she tumbled end over end before righting herself with a burst of ki.

 

Pain slid like razor blades through her veins, cutting into muscle and bone. Through the bond, Trunks watch her look down. The veins of her right arm stood out black. Trunks pushed some of his energy through to her; enough to make her legs stop shaking and steady her breathing.

 

Her face hardening in determination, she flung herself at Keyuka, using her ingenuity and superior skill. Bones broke and still he kept coming. He seized her hands and together they grappled, their knees that met with crackles of energy, fingers slick with blood. Inch by agonizing inch, Keyuka bent her hands back, until they nearly touched her wrist. She reached for her power, dug deep into that bright golden well even as red sparks danced before her eyes.

 

Sansai, no! You’re hurting yourself! Trunks cried.

 

Too late.

 

She ascended again, emerald eyes glazed with pain. Summoning her will, she threw Keyuka to the ground and, with some effort, mustered a ball of ki.

‘Do you surrender?’ she rasped. Keyuka glared murder up at her. She dug her boot heel into the wound of his stomach.

 

‘Do you?!’

 

‘Never!’ he bellowed, grabbing her ankle and slamming her into the ground. The power immediately fled from her and she was left at Keyuka’s mercy.

 

“She has nothing left!” Mom cried, tears streaming down her face.

 

“Damn it Sansai! Why didn’t you finish him?” Father growled, slamming his fist against the arm of his throne.

 

“She still cares for him. Even after all this, she can’t bear to kill a squad-brother,” Raditz said, arms crossed, watching the fight with hardened eyes.

 

“Her honor will be the death of her. Keyuka will not show her the same mercy,” Vegeta growled and Trunks saw a glimmer of concern in his gaze.

 

It was no longer a fight.

It was a beating.

 

The crowd was dead silent. Even the Saiyans who sided with Keyuka against Broly saw there was no honor in this. Keyuka laughed as he kicked and stomped on Sansai’s inert form, focusing much of his gleeful revenge on her wounded arm and her tail. His smile a mad grimace, he placed one booted foot on her head and pressed down. Sansai screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

 

Power bubbled up within him, sparking rage against this vindictive bastard who hurt his mate. His fingers clenched into fists, fingernails biting until blood streamed down his fingers. Trunks’ breathing grew ragged, sweat popped on his brow at the effort of containing it. In an instant he was Super Saiyan, in another he was Ultra Super Saiyan. He stood, blazing with power, his muscles bulging to accommodate his skyrocketing power.

 

“ENOUGH!” he roared, flaming gold. Sansai looked up at him, tears and blood smeared on her face, her heart in her eyes. The sight pushed him over the edge to the power that eluded him after two years of intense training . . . Super Saiyan 2. The entire arena was still. Trunks blasted from the box to the arena floor, gathering his mate in her arms. Trunks glared at the second class Saiyan who had beaten his mate. It took a titanic effort to keep from killing him.

 

“You will not lay another finger on her. Challenge me, if you wish, if you’re so hell-bent for revenge. This fight is over.” He blasted into the sky, heading for the Med Center, Sansai unconscious in his arms.

*~*


	10. Old Wounds

Agitation undulated through him in seething waves and he struggled to contain the strength of his hands and wrestled with electric energy roaring around him. He could kill the little tech shivering in fright before him if he wasn’t careful, he could blow a hole in the Med Center a mile high if he didn’t calm down.

Calm down, Trunks. Calm. Calm. He said to himself, repeating the mantra over and over in his head, thinking of tranquil things: his mother’s blue eyes, Earth’s still lakes . . . but the anger inside him was a raging beast and the images mutated into Mom’s tears at Sansai’s pain, the lake boiled with blood, blood that wept from Sansai’s wounds. A snarl tore from his throat.

 

“What do you mean you can’t heal her?” Trunks spaced out the words carefully, focusing on the syllables to keep from snapping the idiot tech’s head from his shoulders. His tail, blond in his ascended state, whipped back and forth angrily, the wind of it knocking over instruments. The tech’s hands shook as he brushed the pieces of his busted scouter from his tunic.

 

“The wound and poison were easily fixed, Ouji-sama,” the standard tongue was heavily accented on the tech’s forked tongue, his small eyes fixed on Trunks’ face much like what he imagined a rabbit looked with a hawk bearing down on it.

 

“But?” the word sliced through the tech’s stammering like the sword strapped to his back.

 

“Her . . . her ki energy. The regeneration tanks are designed to heal wounds of the flesh, bone and sinew, and the pyrokinetics of the Saiyan race is so unique . . . but of course you knew that--”

 

The fragile patience Trunks retained through the madness of fear for his mate snapped in glittering shards and raised his fist to smite the tech. The flash of his ki reflected off the tank’s glass and drew his gaze. He saw himself, hair standing on end in a spray of blond spikes and eyes a piercing green. Electricity burned the air acrid around him, along with the pale gold aura he knew as Super Saiyan. Behind the glass, Sansai floated peacefully and it was the sight of her that at last calmed him. She looked just fine . . . as if sleeping in the tank’s healing embrace. Trunks dropped his fist and powered down with a sigh. He pressed his hand to the cool glass as if to cup her cheek.

 

“Is there nothing you can do for her?” Trunks whispered, voice thickened with grief. To never have Sansai fight at his side, to have her power taken from her as it had been in the Ice Clan prison that haunted her nightmares, the thought tore at his soul.

 

“From the depths of my soul I cry pardon, Trunks Ouji. Never in my fifty years here have I seen the like.”

 

“That means no,” Trunks whispered, laying his forehead against the glass.

 

Oh Beloved, I’m sorry.

 

“I know someone who can heal her,” said a cold voice behind them, ringing with arrogance. Trunks whirled around and drew his sword when he saw what lurked in the shadows.

 

“Ice Clan,” he spat, gathering his power. The cool red eyes narrowed and a sardonic smirk curled at the corner of his black mouth.

 

“Easy, monkey. I come in peace,” he mocked, the words clipped in a low lisp. Then, in a flash of memory, Trunks remembered him. Tall and slender, muscular and as white as alabaster, Trunks saw much of Frieza in this lizard. Still . . . Trunks saw through his mate’s eyes this Ice Clan freeing her, along with a half dozen other kindnesses unheard of between their two powerful, feuding races.

 

“Zul.” Trunks said, sheathing his sword and relaxing his stance. The thin mouth turned down and he stepped forward, white tail swaying thoughtfully.

 

“How do you know me, ape?” he asked, slowly taking in his hair, his dress, his tail. Trunks squared his shoulders.

 

“I am Sansai’s mate, lizard,” he said coolly. Recognition livened his red eyes and his mouth curved. Zul laughed, a tittering chuckle.

 

“Ah, it’s you. You’re the one she fixed in her mind as Hyul tortured her. Drove him crazy, being unable to break into the mind of a second class Saiyan cub.” His gaze lifted to Sansai floating in the tank and the marble planes of his face tightened.

 

“This little monkey gets in more scrapes than is healthy. Her naive notion of honor, no doubt.”

 

Trunks glared up at him. Zul was powerful, as powerful as King Cold Trunks had killed, if not more so. His power made Trunks wary of him being so close to his mate. Regardless of what Zul had done for Sansai, Trunks couldn’t quite push away his distaste for Ice Clan, what with all the atrocities they had wrought against his loved ones.

 

“You said you knew who could heal her ki. Who? Where?” he snapped. He hated the smugness in Zul’s face, the amusement in his blood red eyes.

 

“My, my, aren’t we impatient. Where are my manners?” he swept into a bow, so deep that it was a hair below rude. When he straightened, he said, “I am Zul, formerly commander of Frieza’s army. Now . . .” his tail whipped back and forth, knocking the tech over. Red light whispered around him, crackling around his feet.

 

“Now I am living on the good graces of a monkey king. In my skulking around this hellhole of a planet, I came across a wanderer like myself. Come. I will lead you to him.”

*~*

Vegeta’s teeth ground together in annoyance. All the Elites gathered in the throne room looked down their noses at his mate, as if she was an insect, their eyes dark with hatred and mocking superiority. It must have slipped their minds that it was her hand who killed Frieza. That it was her genius that reversed the ki-killer and a dozen other Ice Clan traps, Vegeta thought to himself. Any disparaging comments they had were kept to themselves, for fear of Vegeta’s hair trigger temper, but this did nothing to conceal the distaste on their faces, in their eyes. Those two-faced, cowardly bastards! He could kill them all!

 

Vegeta, loosen your grip. You’re hurting me.

 

Immediately, he relaxed his possessive grip on her arm laced through his. His mate’s voice was calm and soft, soothing him. He glanced down at her, noting with doting pride her erect carriage, the swell of their infant son under the flowing blue dress she wore. She was gorgeous. How could those fools not see it? The soft, feminine beauty of her pale skin and blue hair enticed him; he longed to nibble the delicate curve of her neck. His mark was skillfully hidden with the broad strap of her dress, her movements quick and graceful, making the airy cloth ebb and whirl around the lean shapes of her legs. She was beautiful and her beauty was matched by her sharp mind and fiery spirit. They would see. He would make them see how worthy she was. He would make them adore her as he did . . .

She caught the thought and looked up at him, her heart shining in her eyes.

 

Oh Vegeta . . .

 

Her love thundered through the bond with the power of a torrential waterfall, and Vegeta struggled to retain the kernel of himself in the face of this onslaught. He had to keep his wits about him, he must not let his feelings show even when he wanted to sweep her in his arms and kiss her face.

 

Woman, later. I cannot think when you do this. These bastards will take one ill-placed glance, one lingering caress as weakness.

 

He felt her discontent through the bond, an instant of hurt. A sigh.

 

I understand. They want a queen, I’ll give ‘em a queen.

 

Vegeta watched her draw herself up, watched in amazement as her face froze in a mask of disdaining beauty, of fierce self-possession. He was not the only one who noticed. Cailupa, the female Elite on his Council, smirked in evident approval, as did her mate Turnik, who was a respected commander. We are not without allies, Vegeta thought, scanning the crowd. Their allies, though powerful, were dismally few. Even Nappa, who had guarded Vegeta from the cradle, no doubt thought him seduced by an Earthling witch.

 

Vegeta was pulled from his thoughts by approaching kis, both powerful. The door opened to reveal his son with his mate on his arm. Vegeta’s mouth curled into a proud smirk. He felt the answering swell of pride in his woman, along with a saccharine tide of love and relief at the sight of Sansai unharmed. Vegeta’s eyes held on the boy critically, seeking flaws that his enemies would use against them. Trunks had the look of a son of the Royal House in his armor with his tail curled around his waist and his sword strapped to his back. The only truly jarring aspect of his mixed blood was his coloring. The flat, pale lavender hair was so un-Saiyan, and his eyes were his mother’s.

 

Those searing blue eyes met his boldly, the same slight quirk of mouth splayed on his lips. It was strange to see a carbon copy of his own face miming his habits and gestures. How much of himself was wrapped up in the boy? How much of his mother? It was Bulma who raised him, alone, on gentle Earthling values . . .

 

But it wasn’t the life he experienced. He lived a life of a warrior, saw death and blood just as any Saiyan here. He was a stranger to my people too. After Gohan and before Sansai, there was no one who understood him. It wasn’t weakness that stopped him from killing Keyuka.

 

Bulma told him, as swift and secret as his own thought.

 

Gods, they were even closer now. There were moments when he couldn’t distinguish between his thoughts and hers. It was as intimate as it was unnerving.

She was right, of course. Sansai had taught him much of Saiyan ways, and had Trunks killed Keyuka, turash’ya would have been broken and no Saiyan could give him respect for breaking such an oath. Now, as it was, Keyuka’s honor was broken, for not giving Sansai the death of a warrior, but instead taking more than his prescribed pound of flesh. Vegeta’s eyes moved from the boy to the soldier who was now his mate. Her face was familiar in its colors and angles, he had watched it change and mold in the ten years she had served him. All the eyes were focused on the pair of them and Vegeta grimaced, seeing for a brief second what they saw: a half-breed by-blow wearing an Elite’s armor and the Prince’s medallion and his second-class mate who had forgotten her place.

This was not going to be easy.

 

 

 

 

The boy sat at his right hand at the head of table as they ate on the high dais. They spoke little, but watched each other with the same intensity, measuring, examining, admiring. The green paring of Planet Vegeta’s waning moon shone through large domed windows, and warm low light lit the throne room, shining off polished floor tiles, and made the gold inlaid in carved walls gleam. Feasting marked any Saiyan occasion and the return of his woman and son was no small thing. Sansai sat alongside Bulma and the two spoke quietly to Vegeta’s left. On Trunks’ other side sat the Seer and his new mate Fasha. 

 

“I’m told the Ice Clan Zul helped you heal your mate,” Vegeta said in a low undertone, approving of the clean decorum with which his son ate. Down the table, Kakkarot shoveled food into his mouth regardless of the half-disgusted looks thrown his way, blissfully ignorant of the goings-on of the day. For once, Vegeta wasn’t annoyed by his obliviousness. No doubt the third class idiot would fly off the handle. Vegeta felt the boy’s eyes on him and cocked his head, chewing thoughtfully. Trunks’ blue eyes were warm and soft with all the affection and pride he did not dare voice. A strand of his lavender hair hung in his face and he flicked it away absently. 

 

“Yes, Father,” he replied, his voice deep and resonant. The boy’s cheeks were flushed and eyes bright with the blooming warmth of good food and better wine. He’d be deep in his cups if he wasn’t careful. 

 

“Who was it that healed her?” Vegeta grunted, taking another large bite of seasoned venison.

 

“A Namek,” Trunks whispered. Vegeta choked and coughed, staring at his son incredulously. Several glanced up the table at him and he glared back, daring them to offer help. A cup bumped his hand and Vegeta accepted the wine from Bulma, washing down the food and mastering his shock. Bulma continued her conversation with Bardock across the table, but was listening keenly through the bond.

 

“Are you sure, brat?” he growled, narrowing his eyes at his son. Trunks nodded once, eyes dancing with amusement at having unbalanced him.

 

“Of course. It’s hard to mistake a Namek. His name is Nail. He’s living in the wastes to the north. Zul seemed to be well acquainted with him.”

 

Vegeta nodded absently, considering. He remembered vividly the dragonballs he had hunted in his other life. Perhaps this Namek could tell him the coordinates of his planet. After all, why should he settle for one lifetime? He could wish for immortality for himself, his woman, his son and Sansai. They could rule the galaxy forever. The idea appealed to him.  

 

“A son of the lost world of Namek on Planet Vegeta. Gods,” he muttered. Trunks nodded, his eyes sliding away from Vegeta’s face. Vegeta craned his neck to see what had captured the boy’s attention and saw Sansai smiling at Bulma. She wore the white formal armor of an Elite, with a red flower in her hair, a subtle touch of femininity softening the guise of a solider.

 

“What will happen with Keyuka, Father? Sansai wouldn’t say.”

 

Vegeta frowned.

 

“I banished him from my guard and the Capital. I imagine he is in the wilds somewhere by now, nursing his wounds like a kicked dog, or off in space to find Broly.”

 

“If he comes for Sansai again, I’ll kill him,” Trunks said calmly, sipping his wine. Vegeta smirked.

 

“If he comes for her, Sansai will kill him herself.”

 

 

 

 

The feasting wound down hours later and, with their dour moods lightened by the king’s wine, the Elites relaxed their hawk-like perusal of the newcomers. Music was struck up and a few of the more uninhibited Saiyans began to dance. Along with the thread of the song, the Elite kahntorMitsuba took up a Moontime chant.

 

“Come away, come away, my comrade, my mate,

Together with fang and fist and fire

We will dance the dance of old

In glorious combat

Come away, come away, and drink of my cup

Together with fang and fist and fire

We will dance

In glorious darkness.”

 

In response every Saiyan stomped their boots in time with the beat, clapping in rhythm. Sansai’s voice soared over Mitsuba’s low growls; smoky and warm in wordless undulation, twining with her mentor’s as together they sang the refrain. Vegeta sat back, tapping his fingers in idle tempo. He felt ripples of surprise echo through the bond. Vegeta smirked.

 

What is it, woman? Did you think Saiyans didn’t know how to sing? What do you think ‘kahntor’ means? Singer. Keeper of songs.

 

Her face reddened. The soft flush of blood under her smooth pale skin sent an answering flush of heat through him. He longed to be alone with her, away from prying eyes and intruding responsibilities. Her eyes met his in perfect understanding, a tiny smile playing at her lips.

 

I’ve heard Sansai sing before, but I didn’t think you dignified Elites could bring yourselves to look so foolish.

 

She waved her hand toward one Elite passed out with his head on the table, another dancing drunkenly, two others grappling at the end of the table. Vegeta chuckled, earning a questioning glance from Trunks. The boy returned his avid gaze to his mate, and the blue eyes shone with a kindling hunger. Vegeta scanned the rest of the table, all attention was diverted elsewhere. Vegeta’s lips curved. He saw an opportunity. Stealthily, he grasped Bulma’s knee a suggestive squeeze under the table. Her hand covered his and together they slipped into the shadows, the coarse laughter and singing growing fainter and fainter.

 

 

They had no sooner crossed the threshold and locked the door than she turned to him. They came together with an elemental crash, all heat and hunger. Her mouth met his in fierce, almost violent kisses, sucking and biting at him. Shivers of arousal tore through him. He wrapped his arms and tail around her, as if to prevent the Kais from taking her away again.

 

Never again, my love. Never. Bulma whispered, her voice shaking with passionate vehemence. She tasted of wine, the tang sun ripened grapes, and love rushed through the bond in torrents. Vegeta thought dimly he could get drunk from kissing her. Her smooth hands slid gently over his face, down his neck and chest to touch his tail. He moaned against the seal of her lips as passion built higher and hotter within him.

 

Vegeta swept her up in his arms and flew the remaining steps separating them from the bed. Crouching over her, he tore at his imprisoning clothing as her hands traced torturous paths over him. Gods, she was driving him mad! When she squeezed his tail he let out a snarl of frustration, clawing at his armor. When her hand slid down his battlesuit to clasp him, he wrenched the armor off with his bare hands, the alloy screeching in protest. He shucked off the remainder of his clothes hurriedly, half-insane with his need for her. Thought and emotion blurred together through the bond, a steady heartbeat of pulsating lust.

 

“Bulma . . . Bulma,” he rasped, forcing gentleness into his hands when instinct screamed for him to bury himself within her. His soft, blue mate was a feast after a fast and he would savor slowly, as he had before she left him. With great care, he peeled off her dress, baring the soft curves and planes of her to his perusal.

 

“Vegeta,” she whispered, a plea torn from swollen lips. He smirked.

 

“Patience, my mate,” he growled, his voice hoarse and breathy with arousal. His eyes devoured every inch of her. Her body quickened with the fruit of his seed, her breasts swollen and nipples dark. He kneaded them gently and she moaned, head thrown back, exposing the maddened pulse at her throat. Vegeta bent and set his lips to her pulse, kneeing her thighs apart. His manhood pulsed with its own life, hard and swollen at the vale of her entrance. He could not get as close to her as he wished. The mound of her pregnant belly swelled between them. She arched up restively, in wordless pleading. He reared back.

 

“Roll over,” he commanded. Her blue eyes flashed, confused and excited at once. She did as he asked and Vegeta stretched over her. Panting in her ear, he positioned her hips for him, her firm buttocks pressed to his groin. Gritting his teeth against the roaring desire burning between them, he set his hands to her breast, sliding down over her belly. Her breathing hitched, the inhaled breath burgeoning into a throaty moan as his fingers probed the soft folds of her womanhood. Vegeta muttered in unintelligible Saiyago, nipping at the thick pulse of her throat as he caressed the tiny nub between her thighs and felt the ripples of pleasure echo through her body and mind.

 

His wavering control slipped away when he entered her. Her inner muscles clamped down on him, flexing, milking his hardness. His hands dug into her hips, holding her still as he rammed into her again and again. He held nothing back, not the tiniest scrap of himself as they fell into pleasure together, and sank into each other’ souls, as One.

*~*

Bulma returned to her body reluctantly, clinging to Vegeta in the sweetness of oblivion. Her innards pulsed with the lingering tingle of his thrusts, and she felt saturated in his scent and touch, at last replete. Pulsing inner muscles caressed his softening manhood lazily and he groaned, his hips nudging her gently. She laid panting, sweat-soaked skin over limp muscle and softened bones, without the will to move, the fine fibers of the coverlet vibrant beneath her cheek. Vegeta was a warm weight on her back, and she shivered at the feel of his tongue laving a droplet of sweat from her shoulder, a warm, velvety slither. 

 

With a sigh, Vegeta removed himself from her and she rolled over to look at him. Sleepily, she traced his features with her fingers, the dramatic angles of his eyebrows and cheekbones, the thin curve of his lower lip. She knotted her hands in his wild, spiky hair and pulled him down on top of her. To see him, touch him, be with him, the loneliness and sadness evaporated. Vegeta splayed his hands on the mound of her belly and the dreamy look of pleasure on his face disappeared into a serious scowl. As close to him as she was through the bond, she felt his anxiety.

 

“We’ll put him in an incubator in the morning,” he said, a statement, not a question. Bulma frowned, covered his hand with hers on her belly.

 

“Why, Vegeta? He’s fine.” languidly, as if grateful she was finally still, she felt a tiny hand press against theirs. Vegeta hissed and tore away his hand. Confused and hurt, Bulma peered through the bond and was smote by a wave of complex emotions, so convoluted that she couldn’t decipher them.

 

“What wrong?” Bulma whispered, watching the outward ripples of his confusion break on his face. The scowl deepened and he held her face between his hands.

 

“We have to take him out. I saw your memories, Bulma. He’s hurting you, every moment he grows stronger. You said yourself you nearly died giving birth to Trunks,” he growled, glaring at the mound of her belly. Bulma covered her belly with her hands, protecting her son from his father’s glare that seethed with . . . what? Fear? Resentment? Loathing?  Bulma’s heart recoiled at the thought of Vegeta hating the baby they made together. Bulma rose, sitting opposite of her husband.

 

“I’m not letting you take Geta from me,” she said with a mutinous thrust of chin. Vegeta’s face grew thunderous. In a blur of movement, he pinned her to the bed, glaring down at her with fierce and terrifying anger. There is no violence in his hands, she thought dimly. He’s hiding something. 

 

“Damn it woman, for once do as I say!” he roared. Bulma glared right back at him.

 

“What prompted this, Vegeta? He can’t be any safer than he is right here.” She glanced down at the roundness of her abdomen pressed against the dark, muscled hardness of Vegeta’s. All the anger fled from him and he laid his forehead to hers.

 

“Woman, please . . .” he said brokenly and Bulma embraced him, shaken by his whispered plea. She opened her mind to him and was smote by waves of anguish and fear, such terrible fear. She sank deeper, searching for the painful thought or memory at the root.

 

I don’t remember it, not really. But it happened. I killed my mother.

 

He shoved into her the half-remembered snippets: darkness, living warmth and sweet simple love, a feeling of safety, then abrupt cold, the scent of blood, keening screams. And later the pained look on his father’s face, the whispers of ‘Legendary’ in his hearing.

 

She carried me to term, even though the techs told her it would kill her. She was stubborn and beautiful, as you are. I would not see you die bearing my brat and know that I killed you as I did my mother.

 

Oh my love . . . Bulma whispered, enveloping him in her arms, it’s not your fault your mother died. It’s not your fault that you’re strong. And it’s not our son’s fault that I’m human. I’ll think on it.         

 

He chuckled.

 

Stubborn, lowborn wench. How is it you always get your way? he grumbled without rancor. Bulma laughed, the sound turning to a gasp as she felt his erection probe between her thighs. And there was no more need for talk as she took him inside her body, inside her heart and they dissolved into each other.   


	11. A Storm Builds on the Horizon

Trunks cursed softly, jarred from a warm cocoon of sleep by a rude knock at the door. His head throbbed with its own heartbeat, pain drilling behind his eyes. Nausea churned in his belly and he cursed his folly. Whatever giddy buzz he had the night before was gone, replaced by an acrid taste on his tongue. The inert form sprawled on his chest made a soft sound, before snuggling closer, her soft brown tail winding around his wrist. A smile softened the grimace of pain and he touched his wife’s tangled hair, remembering the sweet smoky timbre of her voice as she sang and how it roused him. They had sung a different song together, here in the rooms of Planet Vegeta’s prince.

Again, irritably, the intruder hammered at the door, the sound crisp and insistent.

 

“I’m coming!” he yelled, immediately regretting the action as his head protested. Trunks growled low in his throat and reluctantly rolled from Sansai’s embrace, landing in a crouch on the floor. Vertigo overtook him and he closed his eyes, waiting for the room to still. A hoarse chuckle belied the incessant knocking. One blue eye popped open to find Sansai, sprawled naked on their bed, with a smile curving her red lips and her tail flicking side to side. She looked like a lazy tiger, watching him with a purely feline grin.

 

“‘Drunkenness is voluntary madness, and a hangover is its antidote,’” she said sardonically, watching him struggle into his pants with some amusement. Trunks threaded his tail through the hole, and wound it around his waist before glaring back at her.

 

“A singer and a philosopher, are you? Do you have any pearls of wisdom to get rid of this headache?” he growled. Sansai, who was as drunk as he last night, winced at the knocking and buried her face in a pillow. Whoever was at the door was getting impatient, for he knocked relentlessly, like a woodpecker drilling for insects.

 

“Damn it, I’m coming!” Trunks bellowed, glaring at the door and hating the one on the other side for robbing him of wake-up sex with his wife.

 

Trunks marched across the expanse of his new quarters and nearly tore the door off its hinges. Kakkarot stood outlined in fierce gold of the desert sun rising behind him, hand poised mid-knock. The beams of light seemed to pierce his brain and his head pulsed in protest.

 

Irritation deepened with dislike. He was nothing like the Goku who he had met on Earth, the goofy, kind-hearted man who would give anyone a helping hand, even an enemy who had tried to kill him. Trunks smirked at him and leaned languidly against the door, intensely aware of his disheveled hair and Sansai’s scent all over him. Kakkarot’s nostrils flared and his black eyes narrowed in disgust. Dislike was apparently mutual.

 

“What can I do for you, Kakkarot? I’m sorry I took so long answering the door. I was . . . busy.” he said, pausing deliberately. He couldn’t resist rubbing it into his face. Sansai was his and always would be. Kakkarot needed to get used to the idea. A flicker of anger tightened his features, but he mastered it admirably. His bow was mockingly shallow and Trunks resisted the urge to punch him.

 

“No problem, Prince Trunks. Your father wants to train with you. He asked that Sansai go with Bulma.” Trunks hated his mate’s name on Kakkarot’s tongue, but brightened at the prospect of training with his father.

 

“Okay. You’re dismissed,” Trunks said with a mocking smirk. The soldier remained unmoved. His mouth curved in a perfect imitation of Trunks’ smirk, the same disdain, the same subtle mockery. So strange on Goku’s face . . . he thought.

 

“Do you need a guide, Prince Trunks? The palace is real big. You could get lost,” he said. Trunks’ facade cracked, feeling fury well within him. Mastering his passion, he smiled tightly.

 

“I think I can manage. You’re dismissed, soldier.”

 

Kakkarot flinched, then did as he was asked. Glaring after his retreating back, Trunks padded back into the murky semi-darkness of his room. Sansai rose, and the sight of her naked body sent pangs of arousal echoing through him. Cocking an eyebrow, she asked, “Who was that?”

 

Trunks smirked and kissed her, heatedly, possessively, feeling that same heat kindle in her.

 

“An annoying servant. Come on, Father wants me to train with him and you to go with Mom. We need to get ready.”

 

 

 

 

Trunks knew he had made a faux pas as soon as he stepped onto the shimmering floor. Not only had he come dressed in his ceremonial armor, but he was late. Damned hormones, he thought to himself. He couldn’t keep his hands off his mate.

Or anything else.

 

His father was sparring with his squad, a ring of Elites and the cubs they tutored clustered in tight groups around the ring’s periphery. Since the numbers of his squad had dwindled in recent months, Father had chosen new recruits to join Raditz and Kakkarot. There was Caliupa and Turnik’s two sons Kurn and Okurah, Toma’s brother Maro, and another male in Elite armor Trunks didn’t recognize, barely older than a cub.

 

All six of them were sparring with Father, or trying to. Only Kakkarot presented a challenge, and he seemed distracted. Trunks followed his gaze and saw with a jolt that Mrs. Son was standing along the edge, watching him fight. Trunks’ eyes returned to Father as within half a heartbeat, Kurn and Maro were thrown to the ground, soon to be followed by Okurah and the cub. Father’s nonchalant brutality awed Trunks, who knew that he was using only the barest whispers of his power. His Saiyan blood quickened at the thought of fighting him.

 

Father sensed him and threw Raditz and Kakkarot away. Father wore nothing save a pair of black training shorts, and Trunks was sharply aware of his own pristine armor and medallion.

 

“Where the party, Trunks?” someone yelled and he reddened amid gales of laughter. Father snickered and slung a white towel around his neck.

 

“Did you come to stand there and look pretty or fight, brat?” he asked, head tilted in wry askance, eyes glittering with mirth and the exertion of the spar. Trunks managed to keep from beaming like an idiot and quickly stripped down to his pants, carefully pooling his medallion on the soft nest of his shirt.

 

“Have a wild night, did you, lad?” Raditz pointed out, gesturing to the red scratch marks on his back. Trunks smiled smugly, his eyes finding Kakkarot’s, who looked away in disgust. Trunks shrugged.

 

“You know what they say: bed a vixen, expect to get scratched.” The rough sniggers and slaps on the back he earned was enough to tell him that he at least partway earned their approval. They didn’t even flinch when they saw the scars left upon him by 17 and 18. To them, he supposed, they were badges of his manhood and strength.

 

 

The desert sun was high and hot and blistering wind blew in the scent of sun-baked earth and synthetic scents of oil and fuel. Heat shimmered in colorless ribbons off the tiles, and radiated up through the soles of his bare feet as he took his place. Raditz, Kurn and the cub, who he heard someone call Zorn, formed a ring around Trunks while Kakkarot, Maro and Okurah formed a ring around Vegeta, who stood with his arms crossed, tail swaying.

 

“Attack!” Father yelled and as one, the squad leapt at them.

 

Trunks sighed in pleasure as he dodged Raditz’s meaty fist. This was where he could shed the awkward guise of prince and simply be Saiyan. There was no rank in battle, only the clean blade of strength and the heft of skill and the driving, burning desire singing in his blood. He felt a moment’s displeasure, for he had wanted to spar with Father alone, but realized that it made sense to include the squad, especially in front of the Elites. They needed to see his skills and his way with fellow Saiyans. 

 

In one fluid leap, he leapt up and Kurn and Zorn slammed together, crumpling into a tangled heap of limbs. The air rang with their curses. Trunks’ smirk disappeared as Raditz grabbed his ankle and slammed him into the ground. Trunks’ aching head renewed its protests and he cursed his sluggish limbs. He would strive as he had in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber for his father’s approval. No Saiyan, even one of Raditz’s caliber, would stand in his way. Kurn, Zorn and Raditz continued their assault with kicks and elbows, but Trunks threw them off with a heave and a roar.

 

It was etiquette, he noticed, not to use ki or raise your power level. Only superior agility and dexterity would triumph. Trunks was comfortable being outnumbered, and had a keen sense of range. He threw several kicks, knocking Raditz back, then phased back into his stance and began trading punches with Zorn who faced off against him with a sort of awed, determined intensity.

 

Every few minutes, partners would change and Trunks faced off gleefully against Kakkarot, Maro or Okurah. They sparred on for what seemed like hours, and Trunks gloried in the sweat running in rivulets down his torso and making his hair cling to his face and neck. He loved the burn of exertion in his muscles and the whine of his breath rushing past his teeth. He was relatively unhurt; save for the purplish goose egg forming under his right eye, the result of one of Raditz’s hammering punches. His sparring partners were worse off, all bearing varying amounts of injury, Kakkarot most of all. He could barely stand. Trunks met his father’s eye and they shared a breathless laugh.

 

“All of you weaklings find a regen tank. My brat and I will spar,” Vegeta announced, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. Fresh energy flowed through his limbs as his heart trilled with excitement. At last! His father noticed him! Now he couldn’t wipe the grin from his face, or hide the joy that flowed through his mind. He felt the questing brush of his father’s thoughts and Trunks saw again the fierce gold of his spirit, twined inextricably with the laughing, undulating blue. Mom, he thought, it was both of them. I wonder how Sansai and I feel to them.

 

Too bad the full extent of our power would break the planet apart. I would have liked to fight my equal for once.

 

Trunks threw back his head and laughed up to the burning jewel of the sun set in the velvety purple sky.

 

Yes, I would like to test out my new strength. To think, a level beyond Super Saiyan!

 

Father smirked, crossing his arms over his impressive chest.

 

“And you achieving it before your twenty first year. Only my son would be strong enough,” he said gruffly. Trunks’ chest swelled. He cut a glance to one side and saw the glowering Elites. The high of Father’s acceptance faded like vapor in the wind at the raw hate in their gaze. He shrugged it off, focusing his attention on his father. He must not falter now!

 

As soon as his fist met Father’s, all his apprehension faded to a distant memory. Father’s golden strength ebbed off him like sunlight, and the grace with which he fought was almost eerie. Together, they smirked at each other, enjoying the brief release of no pulled punches. Wind buckled and whirled at the wind thrown from their punches and kicks, kicking up red sand. Minutes slipped by in blissful effort, and breathless exhilaration. They paused and Father smirked.

 

“Well done, brat. Come, I’m hungry.”

*~*

“Vegeta sent you to me?” Bulma asked, eyeing Sansai critically.

 

As a gift, Vegeta had turned over the science and technology labs to her. Zohan now worked under her, which irked him to no end. Now, as she tinkered with her moon reflectors, with Sansai standing at attention beside her, Bulma remembered all the days and nights spent in a similar manner. But now Bulma was to be a Saiyan queen and Sansai wore an Elite’s armor as Trunks’ mate.

 

“Yes, my lady,” Sansai replied with a bemused frown, “He said that he wanted Trunks to spar with him and that I should report to you.”

 

Bulma rolled her eyes. Vegeta’s concern for her safety was sweet, but he needed to stop ordering Sansai around as if she was a common soldier. She was mated to their son now, didn’t that make her Princess?

I suppose, Bulma thought, eyeing her erect carriage, that the two of them are so used to the roles of commander and soldier, prince and subordinate, I doubt they will ever fully get used to the idea that they are on equal footing, in both ki and influence.

 

“Sansai, honey, enough of this ‘my lady’ stuff. You’re my daughter-in-law now. Call me ‘Mom’ or Bulma or whatever you’re comfortable with,” she said. Sansai’s eyes sparkled in amusement.

 

“Mom?” she repeated, the word sounding strange on her tongue. Her nose wrinkled. Bulma sighed and ran a hand through her short hair.

 

“Just think about it,” she mumbled irritably, folding her hands on the mound of her belly. The small occupant was as annoyed as his mother, for he kicked square and sure, once, then twice. Bulma doubled over. Pain bloomed like a flower in her chest and she clutched her side.

 

“Bulma?” Sansai said, her voice sharp with fear. Warm, callused hands closed on her upper arms, supporting her. Sweat popped on her brow and Bulma dragged in a breath.

 

“That was a good one, Geta,” she told her belly’s occupant with a breathless laugh. To Sansai, she wheezed, “Vegeta wants to put him in an incubator.”

 

She patted Sansai’s arm as she straightened. The severe lines of Sansai’s face tightened in fear and worry. She knelt and long, olive-skinned fingers probed Bulma’s side gently. Bulma hissed at the stab of sharp pain.

 

“Cracked a rib. Hold on,” Sansai deployed a capsule and selected a tool from her kit. Bulma recognized a tool similar to the bone knit Toma had used to set her leg on Planet Frieza. Oh Toma . . . she thought sadly. His brother Maro was on Vegeta’s squad now. She made a mental note to pay her condolences, or whatever the custom was among Saiyans.  

 

Sticking the tool between her teeth, Sansai rolled up Bulma’s shirt. Bulma twisted to peer down, and immediately regretted it as pain rippled through her.

 

“Be still,” Sansai commanded, the words garbled. Taking the oblong wand from her mouth, she probed at the hurt area and Bulma took in a breath of protest. An instant later, the pain was gone. Sansai adjusted her shirt and looked up at her with wide, serious black eyes. 

 

“He’d be right. The brat is too strong. He could do permanent damage with more kicks like that.” Bulma’s heart melted a little at the flash of unguarded love in Sansai’s eyes, pure and bright. Sansai laid a hand on her swollen belly.

 

“Incubators are perfectly safe,” she continued, stowing the capsule inside a small pouch at her belt.

 

“My mother put me in one. So did Keyuka and Zuki’s mother. Raditz’s mate Seripa just put her son in one. It allows the babe to grow protected, while the mother returns to her squad. It’s mandatory for the lower classes, though Elites may choose.”

 

Bulma bit her lip.

 

“But Sansai . . . there are many Elites who hate me and hate that Geta has my blood. Would . . . do you think that someone would try and hurt him while he’s in an incubator? They wouldn’t attack me, for fear of Vegeta. But my baby . . .” she trailed off, horrified by the thought. Sansai’s brow furrowed.

 

“An interesting thought. But if you die in childbirth, the result is the same. I would happily guard the prince until he is ready,” she offered. Bulma managed a laugh.

 

“Sansai, you’re too sweet. It would be ridiculous for Vegeta to set his strongest warriors to guard little Geta. He needs you doing other things, I’m sure.” She sighed, cupping her belly protectively. Just as it was with Trunks, the motherly love was pure and fierce. He had a name; he had a rhythm and sound. He belonged to her.

 

“What is this Geta business?” Sansai asked with a gleam of dubious disapproval. Bulma smiled and eased onto a chair.

 

“Well, his given name would be Vegeta, but I thought it would be too confusing with two Vegetas running around. So I thought maybe to call him Veggie, but that sounds silly. So did Vegeta Jr. So I settled on Geta. I like it.”

Sansai smirked.

 

“Geta,” she rolled the word around in her mouth, tasting it. She shrugged.

 

“Could we not call him Prince Vegeta? That’s how we dealt with this dilemma in the past.”

 

Bulma snorted.

 

“I’m his mother! I’m not calling him by a title! Geta’s just fine.”

 

Sansai laughed. She folded her arms across her chest, tail flicking lazily to and fro.

 

“Little Prince Geta. Have you mentioned this to King Vegeta?”

 

Bulma blushed, remembering the context last night. They hadn’t discussed anything or even really spoken, they were too wrapped up in each other’s bodies.

 

“I mentioned it, but I don’t think he caught it.”

 

Sansai cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing. She glanced at the news feed and her eyes blanked in telepathic contact.

 

“Let’s go. It’s lunch time.”

*~*

After dining, Trunks accompanied Father to Council. With a taut frown, Father informed him that the Council wished to test him. Anxiety hollowed out his belly.

 

“What sort of test? Like a paternity test to see if I really am who I say I am?” he asked with steel in his tone, lengthening his stride to keep up with Father’s swagger. Father snorted, his shoulder twitching in dismissal, making his red cape ripple behind him. Coal black eyes smoldered under the severe line of his eyebrows, set into a face identical to Trunks’ own.

 

Trunks felt a foolish little thrill at the breathing picture of all his imaginings. His father was more than he dreamed of, and also, strangely, less. His power, bearing and appearance were grand and impressive, as was the authority he wore as easily as his cape. But his gestures, expressions, and turns of phrase, all were like the other Vegeta he had met back on Earth. Well, Trunks thought, he is that Vegeta after all. He is and he isn’t. It boggles my mind that he remembers me and Mom. No wonder Supreme Kai calls him a headache.  

 

Father smirked at him, a wealth of implied disdain in the expression.

 

“They wouldn’t dare suggest you are not my son. You stand with my face and my strength no matter your human coloring; you are the Legendary as I am.  Even if they did question it, paternity is often hard to determine with half breeds,” he said gruffly, not flinching at the harsh term for what Trunks was, “Saiyan blood runs strong. A DNA scan would only read Saiyan, even after several generations of dilution. No, they want to test your competence. Their argument is that since you were not raised Saiyan, you cannot be a Prince of Saiyans. Their argument is valid, and I cannot deny them.”

 

Trunks frowned, feeling a pang of true fear. He had studied Saiyago diligently, and decoded hundreds of pages in the tome Sansai had given him, but his knowledge was paltry at best. He let none of his anxiety show on his face or in his manner, smothering the thoughts behind the cold mask of Saiyan stoicism. He noticed Father watching him keenly, the sharp black eyes searching for any chink in his resolve, and, finding none, smiling ever so slightly.

 

“Stay sharp,” he bade, before glaring at the slaves who tarried a second in opening the red stone doors. Trunks took solace in the image of his ancestor Vegeta the first standing tall and strong in the carving in Super Saiyan gold. If all else fails, I’ll transform and bash in a few skulls, he mused. The idea pleased him and he entered the throne room grinning fiercely.

 

The long black table was clear of last night’s dishes, and the room was dazzling in its grandeur. Clean and gleaming in the midday sun, Trunks felt a small, subterranean tremor of awe. The seat of a galactic Empire stood only a handful of paces down the hall, a barbarically carved throne that twenty nine generations of his family had sat upon. Father took his seat upon it with brisk impatience, cutting into Trunks’ slack jawed ogling.

 

He was suddenly sharply aware of the nine pairs of dark eyes watching him. Trunks strode to his place at his father’s right hand and stood, ramrod straight, fighting down the impulse to brush his hair from his eyes. He scanned the faces, trying to glean an inkling of their intent. He found only blank contempt, but paused upon meeting the gaze of Turnik and Caliupa. Their eyes held a glimmer of something like respect and Trunks took solace in it. One of the Elites stood, a thin blade of a man with black hair cropped short and black eyes cold and empty.

 

“By your leave, King Vegeta, may we proceed?” he said, drilling eyes not leaving Trunks. Frozen in his cold black gaze, Trunks stood immobile, forcing stillness, forcing calm into his mind and heart.

 

“Make it quick, Tarah,” Father growled. The Elite Tarah strode to the base of the dais and motioned for Trunks to descend. Casting a wary glance at Father, he saw him nod imperceptibly. Trunks quelled his nervousness and followed Tarah to the center of the room. Pausing theatrically, he turned to the watching Elites.

 

“The conditions are simple. If Prince Trunks does not satisfy the most basic of Saiyan requirements, he is disqualified as a legitimate heir to the throne.” There was a spiteful gleam in Tarah’s cold eyes, the look of one who already knew the outcome of this particular game. Trunks felt his anger begin to smolder, erasing the terror he felt.

So much hinged on this.

He would not falter, no matter what was thrown at him.  

 

“If he somehow displays ample competence,” Tarah continued, a wealth of implied doubt coloring the words, “then we will not oppose his inheritance. He and all his heirs will stand as sons of the Royal House.” Tarah smirked and, with a jolt, Trunks recognized the fierce brand of his features in Zorn, one of his sparring partners this morning.

 

The fierce gold, the singing brightness of his father’s mind brushed his and said, Steady, brat. You are your mother’s son. Keep your wits about you. And remember your bond with Sansai. Trunks froze, keeping his face hard and focused. Furtively, he reached out and touched her mind, and she answered, sensing his taut anxiety.

 

I am with you, my prince. She whispered, along with a soothing wave of trust and reassurance. 

 

At last he said, “I am ready.”

 

The words had no more than left his lips than a malign presence bore down on his mind with all the single-minded intensity of a landslide. Knives of thought lashed out like flung blades, and Trunks struggled to fight back the assault, drowning in images of blood-soaked battlefields and keening screams. Of course, he thought through the biting pain and titanic effort of holding him off, of course he would find the one chink in me. I would have killed him had he challenged me in anything else.

 

Trunks mustered up images of the mirror-bright alloy of his sword, strong and flexible, of glacial boulders, bearing silently the ravages of ages. The pain abated, the violent beast howling at the gate of Trunks’ mind. After fruitless minutes of assault, there was a lull in the grueling pressure bearing down on him. Trunks expelled a forceful breath in relief, as if coming up for air after swimming underwater, sweat dampening his brow.

 

“Is that your answer, Prince Trunks? Are we boring you?” Tarah’s voice echoed through the chambers of the throne room and deeper, ringing with sneering mockery in Trunks’ head. Trunks frowned in confusion, blinking at Tarah’s snide gaze and the growing restiveness from the Elites behind him. He glanced at his father and saw the understanding and disapproval sit dark on his face.

 

“I’ll ask again, Prince Trunks,” Tarah said in Saiyago, with the longsuffering patience of a teacher to a particularly inept pupil, “any cub knows this. What part of the body changes first under the light of a full moon?”

 

Trunks stared at him blankly. He felt an instant’s panic. He had never transformed before! He had no idea!

 

The teeth, Sansai said into his mind, your teeth sharpen into fangs first. It makes speech difficult.

 

“Teeth,” he blurted in the same tongue, girding himself up for another mental assault. Surprise flashed across Tarah’s face, with murderous retribution at its heels. Trunks now understood Tarah’s tactic: augmenting his needling questions with mental grappling.

Clever.

Trunks’ face froze into a mask of implacable determination. He would not give up his birthright so easily!

 

 

 

 

The interrogation lasted for what seemed like hours and each minute that ticked by left Trunks staggering with exhaustion. Where did Tarah, only moderately powerful ki-wise, get all of this mental energy? Dimly, in the half heartbeats Tarah paused to rest, Trunks felt pulses of energy empty into Tarah and realized the other Elites on the Council were pushing energy into him. Trunks growled low in his throat, and accepted Sansai’s offered energy with grim alacrity. Her presence sang over the thick blackness of Tarah like birdsong, filling him with light and hope.

 

Some of his thoughts leaked through his mental walls and his opponent twisted them, presenting him with hallucinations of Sansai in pain, Mom lying with her throat slit, and Gohan dead, over and over again. Trunks felt his power stoke within him and he used it, channeling the fierce gold into Tarah’s mind, intimidating him with the power of gods that slept within him. Recoiling in fear, Tarah staggered back, crying out aloud. Trunks locked eyes with him, glaring into their small black depths.

 

“Are you satisfied, Tarah?” he powered up only slightly, blue ki bright and clean around him. Scouters chirped in protest.

 

“Or would you like to continue?” he said, smirking. Bitterness twisted the Elite’s narrow features and Trunks knew he had won.

*~*

Across the Universe, on the fringes of the Empire, another Saiyan was locked within deadly combat. Blood wept from dozens of cuts and burns all over his body and began to fill his lungs under the shattered remnant of his black armor. The reek of blood and sweat and spent ki hung in the air and Suresh knew he was alone. Coughing violently, he swiped blood from his lips with the back of his wrist. Hate hardened his black eyes and he stared up at his assailant with seething contempt.

 

“I won’t tell you anything. I am loyal to . . . King Vegeta . . . the Super Saiyan! He’ll kill you as he did your--”

Suresh never finished the sentence.

 

A muscular purple tail shot out from the oily smoke of the burning outpost, striking Suresh. The sound of his neck snapping was crisp and clear over the greedy roar of flame and muted sounds of struggle from any Saiyan still alive. A monstrous form emerged from the smoke, his armor splashed with blood, black horns crowning his skull, red eyes narrow. His touch was the kiss of ice; a fluid, formless cold clung to his heavy purple-skinned muscles. Any ki-sensitive species would shiver in his presence, even the Saiyans had once knelt to him as lord.

King Cold.

His black lips pulled back into a fearsome sneer as he looked down at the body curled at his feet. He sipped Arlian wine from a delicate glass flute, incongruous amid the wreckage of battle and death. 

 

“Such a stupid hirsute race,” purred King Cold, keening, dulcet tones of his voice seeming to caress the words as he spoke them, even as they dripped with disdain and malice.

 

“It’s a wonder why my son was so fixated on them.”

 

A red-skinned soldier appeared and bowed deeply.

 

“Sire, all the Saiyans here were eradicated.”

 

Cold swirled his wine, idly, already bored with this spit of rock and the Saiyans who had once peopled it. He had only deigned to grace them with his presence because of its unlucky proximity to his barren homeworld, the White Hall a shattered remnant and his son’s body, decapitated and eviscerated across the throne where he had once sat as Lord of the Universe.  

 

“We also found some vid feeds that you might find interesting,” the colonel said eagerly, an excited puppy wagging his tail. The Ice Clan lord sighed and followed the colonel, hunching his shoulders to enter the doorway, stepping over corpses and skirting pools of congealing red blood. Even their blood is rank, Cold thought, it is too bright, too hot, and reeks of their disgusting mammalian smells.  

 

The eager colonel, pulled up the vid feed, a security feed from within the White Hall itself, in Frieza’s last moments.

 

“Leave,” Cold commanded and all his frightened underlings scurried away. Cold bowed over the console, watching.

Watching his son threaten a delicate mammalian female, King Vegeta’s piece of ass from his reaction.

Watching the monkey king ascend and battle Frieza, moving too fast for the camera to catch.

Watching the bitch pump Frieza full of some toxin.

 

The console broke under his black taloned fingers. Red ki swelled in a hot red bubble around him, destroying the entire planet in one brilliant starburst of power. The face of his son’s killer branded deep into his mind.

There was nowhere in the Universe where she could hide from him.


	12. Fear

She started awake, bathed in clammy sweat. Nausea clenched her stomach rhythmically and bile painted her tongue with its foul taste. Careful not disturb her sleeping mate, Sansai rose naked from bed and flew to the bathing room as quickly as she could. She hunched over the W.E.C. just in time as her rebellious stomach emptied its contents. The sweat dewed on her skin shimmered faintly in green hued moonlight pouring in from skylights as the muscles of her back and abdomen clenched in violent retching.

 

When the spasms passed, she leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the chute’s rim, dragging in breaths of cool air blowing in from the windows. It tasted of dry earth, water and the tang of the forest, lessening the sickening taste of vomit. Sansai was as hale and hardy as any of her race and puzzled the cause of her illness. Was it possible for her to catch a ‘bug’ as Bulma called it? Or poorly prepared food? She grasped at fleeting straws, flimsy half-truths to stave off the reality that stared at her in the face, that tingled warm and sweet between her thighs like the memory of her mate’s hard virility.

 

Sansai rose and pressed the button that cleaned the waste elimination chute. She wandered to the counter and took a long swig of stinging mouthwash that Trunks brought with him from Earth. She swished it around in her mouth and spat it out as her eyes began to water. Idly, she ran a finger over the razor he used to shave his face, metal blades as opposed to the ki-generated variety she was familiar with, then touching their two toothbrushes leaning together in a glass before looking at her face in the large mirror.

 

While her heart found nothing but joy at the thought of bearing the fruit of her mate’s seed, the practical, honor-bound side of her railed at the impropriety, even danger of such a course. Even as Planet Vegeta’s instated Prince for two weeks, still the tide of malcontent raged against them. Her beloved homeworld teetered on the brink of civil war, and a child pushing from her belly could tip the scale and bring Planet Vegeta crashing down on their heads . . .

 

Beloved . . . his voice whispered, his voice a lazily possessive caress. Her soul quivered and the beauty of love whispered like song through her, rejoicing in his presence, in the miracle of his love. Carefully, regretfully, she buried her suspicions into the deepest recesses of her mind. She couldn’t tell him until she knew for sure.

Any thought but him was swept away as his warm hands reached around to caress her breasts, and his mouth blazed a lazy trail of heat up her neck.

There was no harm in waiting.

She only hoped he would forgive her deceit.

*~*

“Geta, woman? Really?” the disapproving frown on her husband’s face and the cringing disgust in his voice was almost comical. But for a woman who was eight months pregnant, few things were worth laughing about.

 

“Yes, I’m afraid so, Vegeta,” she smirked, “it suits him. You’ll see. Pretty soon you will be saying it like everyone else.”

 

Vegeta gave a sharp snort of dismissal.

 

“I highly doubt it,” he grumbled.

 

Bulma glared up at him from her worktable, her pale hands sitting idle for the moment. Her weeks had been busy. The moon reflectors were long since finished, and she had lately been occupying her time with theorems for easier transport, a sort of teleporting machine.

 

Vegeta had dismissed her guard, Kurn, this time, as was his nightly ritual, to escort her to dinner. And, as he had for the past two weeks, he dismayed at her butchery of the ancestral dignity of his name. Unfortunately for the high and mighty King Vegeta, the nickname had stuck. Just this morning, Raditz had referred to the baby prince as Geta in an entirely innocent question on his progress. Poor Raditz had earned the lash of Vegeta’s sharp tongue, and a sound beating in training to boot. Bulma sighed and stood, a slow and painful process, with her belly as round as a beach ball beneath her dress and her back and legs aching from being in one position too long.

 

“Here, woman,” growled Vegeta, yanking her arm through his and pushing some of his energy into her almost brusquely. Bulma bit back a squeal of protest, even as relief stole through her complaining extremities. Despite his gruffness, Bulma knew even without the bond that his obstinacy was out of fumbling affection and that his sharp words hid a deep and unassailable fear of losing her.

 

Bulma leaned her head against his shoulder. The lab was her haven, safe from the thousands of death threats that had filled up her hard drive since the day she arrived. Saiyan threats. Elite Saiyan threats. For the most part, the lower classes admired her, and all of the ones struck with the ki-killer who she had healed formed her honor guard, two hundred Saiyans in all. The Elites, headed by Tarah, would never dare to openly challenge her for the very real threat of Vegeta killing them, but Bulma saw their seething hatred turn inward, and Bulma feared for herself and her children.

 

Composing herself, she followed Vegeta out of the lab and down the wide hall. It had become another sort of ritual for Vegeta’s inner circle to dine with him and his family, and tonight they would do so in her now-flourishing garden, redolent with Earthling flowers she had brought from Momma’s garden. She only hoped that Sansai would stay more moonlit tours of the planet’s wonders for a night, she wanted to have her son and daughter-in-law at this little gathering.

 

Planet Vegeta’s moon was the tiniest sliver of green on the horizon, clean and bright amid the dusky purples and oranges of sky and cloud. The chill of desert nights settled in quickly and Bulma walked closer to Vegeta. The heels of his boots rapped against the tiles and rang echoingly in the wide, gently lit hall.

 

She studied Vegeta’s profile as they walked, unspeaking. The pressures of the past weeks weighted heavily on him, but there was not an iota of that strain in his face or bearing. Still as fierce and handsome as ever. He had been born to this life after all, and had known the implications when he took her. But did he regret it, even unconsciously? There were many beautiful Saiyan women, Elites of proud heritage that eyed him covetously, and Bulma longed for the strength of a Saiyan to beat the hunger from their faces. Maybe she could build something . . . He felt her perusal and glanced down at her. The mask he habitually wore fell away into an expression of unguarded tenderness and Bulma’s heart melted.

 

“You are . . . well, Bulma?” he whispered, reaching through the bond. She embraced him in the bond’s silver mist, thanking him for his concern and sighing utter contentment.

 

“I’m fine, Vegeta. Really, I am. I’m only tired. I’ll be glad when our son is born.”

 

“No more kicks? Punches?” Vegeta asked. Bulma scowled. Sansai was a little snitch! Ever since she told Vegeta that little Geta had cracked her ribs with a kick, Vegeta had hounded her, demanding she put Geta in an incubator. It was a bone of contention between the two of them, spoiling an otherwise idyllic time.

 

“No, he’s very still now.”

 

He smiled crookedly.

 

“Good.”

 

They walked in silence for a while, but Bulma sensed he had more to say.

 

“Trunks is jealous of the brat,” he said at last, black eyes perplexed when they met hers. Bulma nodded. She had suspected as much by his reaction when she told him she was pregnant. She had caught him looking at her swelling belly every now and then with raw envy painted on his face. Vegeta opened his mind and she slipped into his memory.

 

 

 

 

The sun was just beginning to rise and two whirling, lashing golden figures clashed in the air far above the palace.  A fierce smirk tilted the corner of his mouth. He and the brat outstripped the dawn in power and light. The brat wore an identical smirk, joy shining clean in his emerald eyes. They met in a vicious tangle of fists and feet, trading blows as their ki sizzled and crackled around them in a nimbus of gold.

 

Vegeta saw an opening and took it, hammering a punch across his son’s face. The force of the blow sent him winging like a missile for the ground, but he caught himself and flew back up, swiping blood from his cut lip. Vegeta threw back his head and laughed in devilish delight.

 

“Don’t drop your fist, boy, or you’ll get sucker punched every time,” Vegeta instructed. The thunderous scowl lightened into a blinding smile, exposing even white teeth. Vegeta blinked in confusion. There were so many twists and turns in him, inroads that were neither Saiyan nor human, but a bewildering mix of both. Vegeta frowned. Trunks was his son, an adult son that he barely knew. Maybe I should . . . talk to him or something,he thought.

 

They continued on for several more minutes and Vegeta puzzled over his style. His first sensei, Gohan, had taught him to survive. Sharp, clean, direct, there was very little flourish in him. Some of his son’s moves were copies of his own, learned from the other Vegeta he had trained with on Earth. But with his sword in his hand, there was no end to his grace; he flowed like water from form to form, a strange look of peace on his face. With the sword, he was entirely self-taught.

 

Vegeta powered down, landed and tossed the brat a drying cloth, swabbing sweat from his brow and bare chest with another cloth. The sun had risen, bathing the land in gold. It was still this morning, only a faint breeze tugging at the black banners bearing Planet Vegeta’s crest in a bold, bloody red.

 

“It will be hot today,” Trunks said, sauntering over the edge of the platform and sitting, dangling his legs. Vegeta eyed the brat, rolling a bottle of water between his hands. His lavender hair hung down to his shoulders, shining and silky like his mother’s.

 

Gods, what was he supposed to do? Hold the brat’s hand and sing rhymes? Punching him in the face was more in his comfort zone. His teeth ground together. He was King of Saiyans! He could do anything, even talk about feelings with his half human son if that’s what it took.

 

Vegeta sat beside his son, staring out across the expanse laid before them. They could see the Capital, then to one side, the rim of the desert, its towering dunes ribbed by the wind’s ravages. On the other lay a twisted silver length of the River Aleph, and the ancient forests beyond, largely uninhabited even now. In the dusky orange horizon, Vegeta’s keen eyes could make out the shapes of the mountains. The two of them sat in companionable silence for a time, the flush of exertion slowly calming, passing the bottle of water back and forth.

 

“Which is Mount Ur, Father?” he asked at last. Vegeta was silent for a moment, surprised by the question. Ur was the mountain marking the former home of the Saiyans, in an age long before they were rulers of the planet. Trunks caught the tenor of his thoughts and smirked. It was still a bit unnerving, he thought, to see Bulma’s eyes staring at him from a copy of his own face.

 

“My mate is a very thorough teacher,” he explained. Vegeta chuckled and pointed to the dark spire of granite thrust like a defiant arm to the east.

 

“It is there. When our ancestors took this city from the Tuffles, it is said that the mountain seemed to burn with our ki. Thus, Ur, fire.”

 

Silence ensued, each wrapped in their own thoughts. This talking business might not be as unpleasant as I thought, Vegeta mused.

 

“Um . . . Father? Can I ask you something?” Trunks said softly and Vegeta knew by his change in tone that they were wandering into deeper waters. He cocked a brow, taking a long draught of water.

 

“What is it br—Trunks?” he said, trying hard to keep the brusqueness from his voice. His woman was constantly harping him on the impersonal terms of ‘brat’ or ‘boy’ or ‘runt.’ He has a name, damn it! Use it for Kami’s sake! she would say. His eyes, as blue as Earth’s boundless sky, met his and Vegeta frowned at the confusion and pain in them. Had he said something wrong? Trunks took in a breath. He dropped his father’s gaze and addressed the clouds.

 

“Why . . . why didn’t you give me your name? There were twenty eight Vegetas before you. Why did you let Mom name me Trunks? Were you . . . ashamed of me?” the last words were a whisper, a dreaded thought.

 

Vegeta opened his mouth to give a scathing reply, but stopped. In ugly truth, when he first learned Bulma was pregnant, there had been a part of him that was horrified by the idea of a half breed son, living evidence of the loss of his home, his honor, his birthright. So when the woman called the brat Trunks, he hadn’t cared at the break in tradition. But, as the keen assassin’s blade of caring pierced his heart, different reasons emerged.

He sighed.

 

“In that time, there were no Saiyans left for me to rule, none but a half wit who didn’t even remember what it meant to be a son of our race. You were born on Earth. You would grow up, mate and have Earthling children. I saw no reason to give you the vestige of a title when my blood ran strong in your veins. Any idiot who looked at you would know you were my son. Besides, I . . . I had a talent for making enemies there. If you bore my name, it would . . . it would bring you only shame, danger, hate.”

Vegeta focused on the horizon, embarrassed by the baring of feeling.

 

“But things are different now,” Trunks said, and Vegeta was surprised by the edge of bitterness in his cool voice. A swift glance revealed his face black with anger.

 

“Now you have a planet to rule and your new son will grow up properly Saiyan!” the words slowly escalated from a near whisper to a shout. He leapt to his feet in one clean motion and began to storm off. Vegeta growled and caught his arm.

 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going, brat?” he spat, power and anger knotting up inside him. He was shocked to see the overbright shine in his son’s eyes, the sheen of tears. Trunks’ face twisted into a snarling mask, Vegeta saw naked emotion writhe in his blue eyes.

 

“I’m your son just as the little one is. So why did he, the second born, get your name?” he demanded. Vegeta glared at him, his hot temper boiling.

 

“What the fuck do you want from me? You are Prince of Planet Vegeta, heir to the Empire me and my father spent forty years carving from Ice Clan baronies. I gave it to you, even when I had no idea what manner of man you were. I can give you no clearer sign of my favor than that medallion around your neck! And if you want to sit here crying like some weakling mama’s boy, then go ahead, but I have better things to do than stay here and reassure your petty insecurities.”

 

 

 

 

Bulma gasped as she returned to herself. She saw Vegeta’s regret for his harsh words, and his bafflement at Trunks’ violent reaction.

 

“Kami, I had no idea how deep seated it was,” Bulma whispered, laying a hand over her belly. Would little Geta earn the enmity of his own brother simply by being who he was? Vegeta scowled.

 

“We need to beat this from him. This is why it is customary for the king to have only one heir. Jealousy between brothers leads to fratricide,” he said gruffly, but Bulma felt the worry in him. Bulma drew Vegeta’s free hand over the mound of her belly.

 

“I don’t think it’s that simple. And I hope to the gods that you’re wrong, Vegeta.”

*~*

She haunted his dreams. Her voice, her scent, her pale, porcelain skin, the quick, black eyes that shone like polished stones of obsidian. Now, when he summoned the image of Sansai to mind, all he saw was her. His mate, his wife from the other place. Where he was strongest of warriors, where his son had grown to manhood only to be killed by metal monsters . . .

Chi-Chi.

The specter of his dreams had a name.

 

She was sitting across from him, watching him coyly from beneath her thick, dark lashes. Weeks ago, a dinner like this would have been his own brand of torture, with Vegeta’s half-breed son touching Sansai so possessively, and her flirtatious laughter. But now . . . now all he really knew was the hollow at the base of her throat, the quick, sure movements of her hands. There was a regal air about her, he thought, an air of wry longsuffering.

 

Chi-Chi felt his gaze upon her, and flicked her hair over her shoulder. It rippled like a curtain of black silk. A pang of arousal stabbed his belly.

 

“Are you sick, Kakkarot?” the king’s voice cut through his ogling like a blade. Vegeta’s sharp features wore a familiar expression of hauteur and amusement, burnished by the flickering fire burning the pit they sat around. Kakkarot frowned and scratched the back of his head sheepishly. Maybe it was the cloying aroma of Bulma’s flowers clustered around them, or maybe the cool peace of the night around them, but whatever it was; Kakkarot couldn’t take his eyes off her.

 

“Uh, I don’t think so, Vegeta. Why? You’re not going to give me a shot, are you?” his fists tightened and he looked around at the ring of familiar faces warily. Bulma and Raditz laughed indulgently. Vegeta rolled his eyes.

 

“No you idiot, I’m not going to give you a shot. But you’ve barely eaten. It’s the first time in twenty years that I haven’t seen you stuff anything edible down into that black hole you call a stomach,” he said dryly. Panicking, Kakkarot said the stupidest thing in the Universe.

 

“I’m not that hungry.”

 

Now the entire table was staring at him in astonishment, as if he had just admitted he had an I.Q. of 170. Heat rose to his face and he giggled nervously. After an awkward silence, Bulma pushed away from the table.

 

“Well, I don’t know about you, Goku, but I’m stuffed. The cooks have outdone themselves yet again. Thank you for teaching them the finer points of Earthling cuisine, Chi-Chi.”

 

Kakkarot watched the pleasure of her compliment flush over her face. The look she shot Bulma was one of shared hardship and friendship. Like between Bulma and Sansai. Like between Vegeta and himself. With the queen announcing that she wished to retire, their gathering quickly splintered. The other women: Sansai, Fasha, and Seripa lingered in the sweet-smelling haven of Bulma’s garden while the men abjured to Vegeta’s study.

 

Kakkarot watched Chi-Chi slip away and broke off from the knot of men to follow her, Vegeta and Father already deep in discussion about a new vision. She moved gracefully. Not like Sansai’s almost animal grace, slinking and dangerous, but smooth and efficient. She turned a corner and he frowned, not wanting to call out and draw attention to his absenteeism from Vegeta’s council. So he phased into super speed and zipped in front of her with ease. She slammed into his chest and almost fell over.

 

“Goku!” she cried. He steadied her and quickly removed his hands, a flash of memory branding his brain with white moonlight and her silky hair spread across the pillow.

 

“Chi-Chi,” he said, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

 

“Bulma said that . . . that you were injured when you were young and when you woke up, you remembered your life on Earth.”

 

“Yes. I remember. I remember being . . . different.”

 

She smiled tentatively.

 

“Remember when we were children? You couldn’t tell if I was a girl or a boy! I thought you were so sweet and good.”

 

Kakkarot’s heart fell to his toes. Despite his memory, he was not the same man-child protector. The darker, jaded struggles of an adult knotted him up inside. He was a soldier, and had killed as any Saiyan had in wartime, to save his own life, to protect his comrades and homeworld. He felt jealousy, hatred, sorrow, and his heart bore the ravages of them all. Hadn’t he wanted to kill Trunks for the simple reason that Sansai had chosen him?

 

Crestfallen, he took her hand, so pale and delicate-looking.

 

“Chi-Chi,” he rasped, “I’m . . . I’m not the same man. I remember being him, Goku, and he . . . he is me. But I was raised Saiyan. I was raised as Kakkarot.” A frown flitted across her brow.

 

“Are you . . . are you like Vegeta, then?” she said it with such horror that Kakkarot chuckled.

 

“Vegeta may be grumpy, but he’s a good man. More so with Bulma and Trunks around. But . . . I just didn’t want you to pin your hopes on a man that isn’t there.”

 

A strange, sad little smile stretched her soft lips.

 

“Oh Goku . . . I’ve traveled across time and space on the hope of seeing you. I believe that you are still sweet and good and I want to learn about this man that you’ve become.” She stood up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

 

“But right now, I’m going to sleep. Goodnight, Goku.”

 

“Goodnight, Chi-Chi,” he said and watched her disappear down the hall.

*~*

“You’re sure about this?” Sansai asked, eyeing her mate speculatively. Trunks flashed her a charming grin, meant to relax her tension. Unconsciously, she found herself grinning back. Trunks paused setting the course and kissed her.

 

“I’m sure. I’ll do whatever I can to earn the respect of my people. If that includes gallivanting off to a remote planet so I can transform into a giant were-ape, then that’s what I’ll do. Besides, I’ll need to be as strong as I can be for what’s coming,” he said with a smile. Sansai shrugged off his hands, reddening at the stares of several Saiyans gathered on the launching platform.

 

It’s all Tarah’s fault, she thought blackly, cursing the day his mother bore him. In his meddling and needling, he had brought up in Council that Trunks had yet to perform the Trial of the Moon. Most Saiyans completed the ritual when they graduated the sel’tek, and were formally recognized as adults. In its simplest form, it was a wrestling match as oozaru. But Trunks had never learned control, and if he were to try, he would most likely destroy half the planet. Thus this blighted trip off-world.    

 

The sun had risen, and, bolstered by the Seer’s visions, King Vegeta began preparations for attack. Already, the palace hummed with activity, and farther off in the Capital, Sansai’s keen Saiyan ears heard the roar of warriors training, and the techs busily scurrying with more armor, more scouters, more ki-killer shields, all under Bulma’s stern eye.

 

Sansai shivered, remembering with jagged clarity the hollow look, the eerie echo of Bardock’s voice as he announced King Cold’s return. In all of the library’s texts, the Ice Clan lord was treated with the most wariness. Twice as capricious and vindictive as Frieza, his father made up for what he lacked in raw power with a keen, icy cunning.

If she admired Zul and hated Frieza, Sansai decided that she feared King Cold.

 

Sansai shook herself, focusing on the problem at hand. She checked the capsule pouch on the inside of her chestplate for the thousandth time and was reassured by the small white capsule that held the Bulma’s perfected moon reflectors. If anything were to go wrong . . .

 

Nothing’s going to go wrong, Sansai. Don’t you have something in Planet Vegeta’s histories to quote to me?

 

Actually, this is without precedent. There has never, in over four thousand years, been a Saiyan who never felt the embrace of the moon later than his seventh year. I hate to be the one to tell you this, my love, but you are one of the strongest beings in the Universe. I won’t be able to restrain you if you--

 

He wound his arms around her and silenced the flood of thought with another kiss: brief, but thorough. Sansai berated herself inwardly. She was a Super Saiyan too! She would find the strength to do what she must.

 

Together, they clamored into the pod. In one dizzying second, they vaulted from the platform into the blackness of space. Trunks laughed in delight. As soon as they were stable and on course to an empty planet some lightyears away, Trunks turned to her.

 

“It’s odd that I would be reassuring you. Is there something else that’s bothering you?” he asked, blue eyes gentle and intent. She should have told him then. She should have poured out her fear and joy and wonder. But, gods help her, her courage failed her. Instead she smiled devilishly.

 

“What do think we should do? In here, alone . . .” the invitation hung in the air and her beloved mate could only take it.

 

 

 

           

Sansai had seen her share of planets in her ten year tenure on King Vegeta’s squad: beautiful, ugly, strange, and disgusting. Lenore wasn’t lush or crude, arid or inviting. It was flat, and lacked any distinguishing flora or fauna. Unlike Shekhal, it did not have rich stores ore and stone. It was, by all accounts, a fairly worthless planet. The Empire used it for storage, with excess weaponry and supplies and such, but other than that, there very little use for it.

 

“What a dump,” Trunks said, hastily adjusting the front of his battlesuit as they clamored out. Sansai couldn’t help but agree.

 

“Good thing we’re not here to vacation,” Sansai quipped. She deployed the capsule containing their sleeping mats and packets of freeze-dried food. The weather was unpredictable here, and she saw a storm brewing on the horizon. Trunks helped her pitch their shelter. Staggering back outside, Sansai quelled her nervousness. There was no use stalling. They flew a safe distance away from their campsite, just in case.

 

“All right. Let’s get started. Strip,” she said imperiously.

 

Trunks smiled slyly.

 

“Ready for me again? Well, I’m only too happy to oblige . . .” he began, creeping toward her. Sansai laughed and swatted at him half-heartedly.

 

“Your armor and medallion, you dolt! You’re about to get very big very fast.”

 

Trunks yawned and did as he was bade, shedding sword, armor and medallion, stretching as he did so.

 

“Don’t we need to wait for the moon to rise?” he asked. Sansai shook her head distractedly, sniffing the wind. That storm looked like a nasty one.

 

“No. We’ll use the ki moon technique. It’s easy.” By demonstration, Sansai concentrated, and a small, very bright orb formed in her hand.

 

“Think of the moon. It’s colors, it’s textures, the pull of it in your blood. Focus that hunger into your hand, and . . .” the orb expanded, taking on the greenish hue of Planet Vegeta’s moon. She glanced at Trunks and found him entranced by the ki moon in her hand, and fighting it. Pride swelled in her heart.

 

She felt the terrible struggle through the bond, his feral blood quickening under the moon while the rational mind fought to maintain control. The caress of the moon tempted her and she was wonderfully, primally aware of Trunks: the hiss of his breath through his teeth, the tension in his muscles, and the delicious sheen of sweat on his skin. She hurled the moon up and it hung suspended in the blank, gray sky. Trunks looked at her, his blue eyes flashing red, confusion and the first pangs of fear shining in his beautiful face.

 

“What do I do? How will I control myself?” he asked, the words guttural and harsh. Sansai laughed, but it came out an undulating growl.

 

“I don’t know. It takes practice and will to control yourself in the change. We shall see. Look at the moon, my love. Look and let it all go.”

 

She felt the uncertainty, the wonder and the terrible, thrilling joy and rage mixed.

 

Sansai watched the change take him with fascination. She had never seen it from this perspective before. She could feel every change in his mind and body, but was oddly removed from it. The teeth changed first, lengthening into gleaming blades of white bone, garbling the pained cries tearing from his muscular throat. His eyes rolled back, blank and white, his ears became pointed. His back arched, his tail lashed back and forth. His muscles bulged, pulsed in rhythmic, roiling waves, his nails lengthened into razored claws. He threw back his head and screamed, the keening cry becoming a roar as the bones of his face cracked, snapping and lengthening into a long muzzle.

 

After that, the change sped up. He grew and grew, the battlesuit and boots, stretched beyond bearing; fell in tatters to his feet. Thick, dark brown fur sprouted on his body and he roared again in exultation, beating his chest.

From his maw burst a fiery blast, shooting off into the sky with scorching power.

Sansai smiled, her own teeth beginning to lengthen.

There was no need to fear. His Saiyan blood ran strong.

She lifted her eyes to the moon and let the change take her.


	13. Kinship

Ever since Bulma and Sansai had been captured during Moontime, Bardock was leery whenever any of King Vegeta’s inner circle left the protective embrace of Planet Vegeta. He kept his misgivings to himself for the most part, and since there was no turbulence in his visions, he had watched Prince Trunks and Sansai leave without demur. He felt the weight of King Vegeta’s gaze, and the grave warning in them. If he failed again, the look said, he would not see his grandson born.

 

At the thought of him, Bardock was smote with a thousand images. A boy with Raditz’s hair and Seripa’s slanted eyes, with the power and loyalty of both. A boy who grew into a fine warrior. And there was a girl. A Saiyan with blue eyes . . . With a growl, he set his will against the force of the Knassanans’ gift, tampering the visions under the iron band of his will. It seemed as he grew older, the gift grew stronger, no longer confined to moments of insight, but sparked by random thought.

 

He watched.

 

He watched as the night hours ticked by and dawn approached, wearily scanning the Empire for any disturbance. A black presence, as cold and empty as the endless vacuum of space, rose like aeon from the thousands of ki lights suspended in his consciousness. It was a presence of cold, keen intent, as single-minded as an avalanche, bearing down on Planet Vegeta. Bardock watched anxiously as it paused, turning toward the proud flame of Trunks and Sansai’s ki.

 

“No!” Bardock cried, and thrust his mind into the king’s. King Vegeta was tangled up in contented morning kissing with his mate, and lashed out in violent anger at the interruption. Bardock cut off his hissing recriminations with one scathing thought.

 

_Sire, King Cold is on Lenore._

*~*

For all its barrenness, Trunks found beauty in the storm that raged outside their shelter on Lenore. He never knew that black had so many shades and hues, mutating, boiling together into infinite spirals in the clouds above. The wind was cold and fresh, and Trunks savored the feel of it running through his tousled hair and cooling the sweat from his naked skin. Sansai lay sleeping, sprawled on her belly behind him, their tails twined. Last night was the first night since they had been together that they hadn’t made love. When they were finished with the night’s labor, Trunks had been too exhausted to even think anything but staggering into their shelter and falling asleep.  

 

The night was a blur of pain and exhilaration, terrible, shining rage that was without thought or sense and, even more frightening, a feral, animal intelligence. Trunks gloried in the release of it, beyond the complexities and frailties of human concerns. He was strong! With fang and fist and flame-tongue fire, he could crush any who would question his dominance. In the throes of glorious madness, Sansai filled his senses. She was the lodestone that anchored him to sanity, and he learned to control himself.

 

The fresh, slightly brackish dampness of rain stung his face, and Trunks smiled in admiration as thick, arching branches of pink-hued lighting shattered the sky. Thunder grumbled at the edges of his hearing in between flashes.

 

“Lightning is strong here,” Sansai observed, her voice husky from sleep and the animal roars that challenged him last night.

 

“It feels like ki,” Trunks said abstractedly, as livid tongues of lightning snaked across the sky in ever smaller branches, illuminating a thick, revolving spire.

 

“A cyclone. Cool,” Trunks said, peering into the inky blackness at it. Smiling, he rolled over to look at her. The smile died at the sight of a livid burn on her side, and a long, scabbed scratch on her arm. She followed his gaze and grinned ruefully.

 

“It was your first time, Trunks. You knew the danger.”

 

He had hurt her. The knowledge weighted on him like an elephant sitting on his chest. He scrambled for his armor where his capsules were.

 

“A Senzu,” he muttered, fumbling for it. Her hand covered his, warm, callused, gentle with understanding.

 

“The first time I changed, I clawed my uncle. I was the one who gave him the scar on his eye. I was sorry for it afterward and I’ll tell you what he told me. ‘Shut your trap, brat. It’s only a scratch. Next time I won’t be so easy on you.’”

 

He laughed and grabbed her hand as grief streaked across her heart. Though her uncle had betrayed her, the knowledge of his death stung. She kissed his cheek, a gesture of such human sweetness that his heart melted.

 

“Don’t worry for me, my love. I’ll be fine.”

 

A prolonged rumble emanated from his belly, only to be echoed by hers. They laughed together. She rose, stretching languorously. Lazily, she pulled on a fresh battlesuit and tossed Trunks his. 

 

“Let’s eat. We’ll have to wait for the storm to calm a bit before we go home. The ki-lightning will interfere with the pod’s instruments.”

 

 

 

 

Neither of them saw the attack coming. In truth, they weren’t even on alert.

 

A blast sang through the roof of their shelter, exposing them to the sucking wind and cold, drilling rain. By reflex, Trunks and Sansai burst into Super Saiyan, and leapt at their enemies, a ragged group of foot soldiers. They vanquished them easily and Trunks paled at the sight of the Ice Clan ship gleaming white and deadly on the horizon.

 

“King Cold,” Sansai said. Trunks felt the small coal of fear liven at the name, and her emerald eyes shimmered. He stretched out a tendril of thought to reassure her.

 

Trunks knew that the Ice Clan wasn’t far behind his probe, and reached out with his senses. The raging storm distorted them all. Even his Saiyan senses couldn’t catch the tread of a step over keening wind and hiss of rain against the golden wall of his ki, or his eyes discern shape from shadow. Even his ki sense was distracted by the sharp, vivid flashes of ki lightning. He dragged his sword from the remnants of their shelter and snapped it across his back.

 

“I can’t sense a damn thing. We should--” he began, but was distracted by a needle-thin spire of ki spiraling toward him. Trunks dodged just in time, and Sansai flung a golden blast towards the supposed source, lighting up the barren landscape. As all faded to darkness without so much as a peep, Sansai cursed under her breath, hedging closer to him.

 

“Where the hell is he? I can’t _see_!” she hissed. Trunks’ eyes groped vainly in the screeching storm for his enemy, but saw nothing.

 

 _Our ki is a beacon in this darkness. Let’s power down. Between the two of us, we’ll win this game of shadowmazing._ Sansai suggested.

 

 _Good idea,_ he agreed. As one, they powered down, casting the landscape of Lenore into complete darkness, lit only by the brief flashes of lightning. They spiraled out and away from the smoking remnant of their shelter, keeping close contact mentally. 

 

Tension knotted his belly and Trunks cursed his carelessness as he crept soft-footed on the soggy ground. Where was his caution? His hard won control?

 

Trunks flung out an arm for Sansai as light burst from the Ice Clan ship, an iridescent blue, encasing several miles in a dome, locking out the elements. Trunks cut a glance at Sansai, the severe angles of her face illuminated in the pale blue glow.

 

“A ki shield. He’s locking us in,” she whispered.

 

“He can’t contain two Super Saiyans,” Trunks said with a cockiness he didn’t feel. What was this cold fear gnawing at his innards? Something didn’t smell right . . .

 

A whisper of movement to his left. He shot out a blue beam, giving away his position. He caught the afterimage of a caped figure. A small object bumped the toe of Sansai’s boot and they both peered at it. The orb’s blinking green light turned red.

 

_A grenade! Your ki—_

 

He shouted mentally before the mechanism exploded in ruby red ki and roaring flame.

 

Trunks crossed his forearms over his face feeling the heat and shock rake its burning fingers over him. He almost went weak-kneed with relief when he saw Sansai unharmed. The battlesuit on her arms smoked, and soot marked her hands and face, but she was fine.

 

 _I’m Saiyan. It would take more than some child’s toy to put me down,_ she said primly.

 

 _And Cold knows that. This was—_ Trunks began.

 

 _A distraction,_ she finished, _He laid his trap well. And we stumbled right into it._

 

In the deathly stillness, Trunks had time to hear the shadow music of a flying blade before pain detonated in his head and all faded to blackness.

 

 

 

 

The scent and taste of blood woke him. Before he even opened his eyes, he reached for Sansai. He pressed at the paper-thin barrier separating their minds and was overwhelmed bypain, alarm and thick, empty-bellied terror. Her emotions throbbed in vivid waves of grey and crimson, jagged thoughts ricocheting against one another in his head. Trunks absorbed them and supplied her with his strength: clean, soothing gold.

 

“Open your eyes, monkey. I know you’re awake,” lisped an Ice Clan voice, hissing with malice. Trunks opened his eyes with an arrogant smirk worthy of Vegeta’s son, glaring up at the horned monster that loomed over him.

 

“You caught me,” he wheezed, his chest constricted by the thick metal cords wrapped around his torso. He craned his head to one side and let out a snarl. Sansai lay in the mud, with some sort of tech creature on her chest. It looked like a giant spider some three feet in diameter, its flexible mandibles sucking light—ki—from her. The corpses of at least fifty such creatures lay littered in dented and incinerated fragments around her. Their shining metal legs, at least an inch in diameter, bristled in her arms and legs, blood pooling around her. He struggled fiercely against the restraints, reaching for his power, when a three-toed foot rested casually on his chest, pressing hard enough to force air from his lungs.

 

“Stay still, whelp. Or I tell my mech to suck the last delicious drops of your little friend’s ki from her corpse,” threatened King Cold, red eyes lit like flames from Hell. Trunks stilled. Sansai’s eyes pled for him to fight, to flee, even as speech was robbed from her.

 

 _Oh Beloved, I’m nothing without you,_ he said. Her eyes shone with tears. Trunks returned his icy blue gaze to the Ice Clan, promising murder and retribution.

 

“What do you want with me?” he asked imperiously, as if he stood in Father’s training hall glaring at a recalcitrant cub. His hauteur didn’t amuse King Cold and his tail darted out, a muscular purple whip stinging across his face. Trunks’ ear rang and water seeped from his eye.

                                                                                                                                                   

“My scouting equipment picked up on your power level. You were a Super Saiyan a moment ago, were you not?” he asked, and there was, of all things, a cool politeness to the words, as if he was asking for the time or the forecasted weather.

 

“I was. I am. I will be soon,” Trunks said, but the threat was empty. As long as he held that _thing_ over Sansai, Trunks would do whatever god-awful thing King Cold asked of him. King Cold’s black lips curved, triumph backlit in his face.

 

“How interesting.”

 

The Ice Clan lord knelt on the cold, soggy ground of Lenore, his cape draped like a black shroud over Trunks’ torso. His breath misted at Cold’s nearness. He was death and ice incarnate. One purple hand grabbed a fistful of Trunks’ hair, yanking his head up. Sansai growled, but the sound came out as more of a whimper. Trunks didn’t flinch under his gelid stare, pushing fear away in disgust. The slight smirk set into Cold’s marble features disappeared, replaced with a visage dripping with scorn and distaste.

 

“I know that face . . .” said King Cold, inspecting Trunks critically, “Vegeta . . .”

 

One black-taloned fingernail bit deep into his skin, opening a ragged gash from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. Trunks didn't so much as wince in pain or flinch as they ugly Ice Clan bent and lapped the blood from his cheek.

 

“Her son. You are the blue woman's son.”

*~*

“How did you convince Vegeta to bring you along?” Kakkarot asked her, _sotto voce_. Bulma swung the captain’s chair around with a self-satisfied smirk on her lips. The ripe fullness of her pregnant belly pressed against the seat restraints and she drummed her pink-lacquered nails on the console.

 

“Oh, the usual way. I told him he might need my technical genius in case King Cold had some tech monster up his sleeve. Figuratively speaking,” she amended at his puzzled look.

 

“He consented pretty easily after that. And by easy, I mean it was like pulling teeth for me to even pilot this baby.”

 

Kakkarot sniggered.

 

 _But you got your way, you fool woman, once again. Don’t expect me to be happy about it,_ Vegeta snapped through the bond. Bulma winced, leveling a glare at her husband who leaned moodily against the wall. Vegeta, used to the grandiose scale of his palace and majestic warships, also wasn’t happy about this model of her capsule ship, sleek and swift. Vegeta, whose personal space consisted of a range of six feet, was snappish and grumpy elbow to elbow with Kakkarot, Zorn and Okurah. Any more of the squad and the hatch wouldn’t shut.

 

King Cold, she reasoned, would be on the lookout for Planet Vegeta’s flagship, and, if Bardock’s visions were anything to take stock in, King Cold already had Trunks and Sansai in hand. Now it was a question of whether they got there in time to stay the death blow that would kill them both. Bulma shuddered at the thought. There were no dragonballs, no wish to undo grief and loss. If they died, they were gone . . . gone forever.

 

 _Don’t think like that,_ Vegeta thought, but his anger was tempered with a compassionate gruffness, _we’ll get to them in time, woman. Trust me._

Bulma let out a soft breath and thanked him for his comfort with a meaningful glance. She returned her attention to the blankness of space spread before her, and the tiny dot of Lenore hanging as if suspended by wire. She activated her cloaking device and they landed far from King Cold’s ship. Whatever storm that had ravaged the land had subsided, the churning clouds subsided into idly floating fluff, the rain pattering gently on the hot metal hull of her ship. Even with the thinning clouds, visibility was poor, and the barren landscape did little to raise her hopes.

 

Bulma lingered, keying in the cloaking and alarm codes, gathering the capsules she needed from her store and sliding them into her belt.  She released the restraints and rose to follow the group out of the ship when Vegeta’s hard, hot hand pushed her effortlessly back into the seat.

 

“What the hell, Vegeta?” Bulma screeched.

 

“You’ll stay on the ship, woman.” The deadly softness of his voice told her how perilously close to snapping he was. Bulma pursed her lips. She had a healthy respect for his strength and Angry Vegeta was never easy to deal with. As a result, she chose her words carefully.

 

“Vegeta, from what you’ve told me, there is some tech army being built out there. Even King Cold would need help taking down two of the strongest warriors in the galaxy,” she rose and went to him, watching the uncertainty and anger play over his face. She felt a foolish little thrill. This proud king, the warrior she loved, would never show even an iota of weakness before his men, but he trusted her enough to let her see his frailties. 

 

She wound her arms around his neck, twining her hands in the thick, black hair at the nape of his neck. She pressed her forehead to his and they stood there a moment, breathing the same air, sinking together through the bond where words were cheap substitutes to the truth of their emotions.

 

“Let me go with you. Let me help you. Please . . . I love them too,” she whispered, feeling the deadly tension begin to ebb. He sighed, his breath warm and moist on her face.

 

“Very well. But you are to stay with the squad. If you put so much as one toe out of line, I’ll sling you over my shoulder, fly back here and tie you to that chair.” The threatening words came out in more of a purr, his voice soft and sexy. Bulma smiled.

 

“As you command, my king,” she replied.

*~*

Vegeta glared at the iridescent barrier barring him from the two brats stupid enough to get themselves captured. Two brats that he cared for more than he was ready to admit.

 

“Shit,” he muttered.

 

“What is it?” asked his woman, the damned stubborn, beguiling woman that both enraged and inflamed him, annoyed and soothed him. Vegeta recognized the sharp gleam in her eye, the scientist’s awe and appetite for new technology.

 

She was beginning to shiver in the cool air, the droplets of rain streaming down her face and soaking her hair and clothes. Gallantly, Zorn stepped closer to her and raised his ki slightly, warming her. Vegeta caught his eye in a gimlet stare of approval. He had put Tarah’s son on his squad to placate the Elites, and to keep an eye on him. His conduct on this mission might tip the scales in his judgment and the cub knew it well. At thirteen, he was much too clever for his own good.

 

“It’s a ki shield,” Okurah grunted, glaring at it balefully, “like the ones Frieza used on Shekhal, but stronger.”

 

Bulma’s slender blue brows forked.

 

“You guys are strong. Can’t you just walk through it?” she asked. Vegeta growled low in his throat.

 

“This thing will give one nasty shock to any of moderate ki. But yes, if we powered up, we could blast this thing to the Hell it came from. Then we would alert Cold of our presence. He would have no qualms with killing Trunks and Sansai,” Vegeta barked. Bulma sniffed tetchily, but said nothing. She appraised the wall carefully, then said, “How about I go through? I--”

 

“Absolutely not,” Vegeta cut in with a terse upward jerk of chin. Bulma’s mouth hang open, and he felt the tremors of an outburst build in her as a response. But she blew out a breath, casting her gaze heavenward in longsuffering. Vegeta’s eyes narrowed into slits, wary at her quicksilver changes in emotion.

 

“Vegeta, as you love to point out, my ki is negligible. I could slip in there, deactivate the thing and then you guys could go do the Saiyan thing to King Cold,” Bulma said. Vegeta folded his arms over his chest, his tail swinging back and forth in agitation.

 

“It’s a good idea, Vegeta,” Kakkarot put in.

 

“Is it then, Kakkarot? I doubt you’d approve if it was the Earthling harpy you’re mooning over strolling into an Ice Clan ship with your son in her belly!” Vegeta snarled at the younger man. Kakkarot’s black eyes narrowed in an expression of rare anger.

 

“Chi-Chi’s not a harpy. And I might not approve, but I trust Bulma. She’s smart.”

 

Vegeta opened his mouth to emit a scathing reply when Zorn cut in. His pale, severe features shadowed in the strange blue light of the shield, he stepped forward.

 

“Sire, every second we waste arguing is another second that King Cold has to torture them. If I know Prince Trunks at all, he would do anything to spare Sansai harm.”

 

Vegeta could detect no hint of reproof in his tone, and a quick scan of his mind found no outward signs of anything but grave earnestness. Bulma elbowed her way to stand before him. Vegeta looked helplessly into her face and let her see his fears.

 

_How can I send you there, without shield or weapon, into a den of those thrice-damned lizards? You, after all, were the one who killed Frieza. No doubt Cold knows that. This is a trap. For you._

 

Her face softened and he saw moisture gather in her eyes. Then a smile spread across her face, mischievous and smug. She deployed a capsule and attached a small device to her belt, hefting a ki rifle she had crafted in her early days here.

 

 _I’ll be fine,_ she thought to him, washing him in the truth of her feelings.

 

“The bastard won’t know what hit him,” she said aloud, then with a wink, activated her own shield. Vegeta flinched. Not only had she become invisible, but it was as if the tiny, fierce speck of her ki had been snuffed out. Only with the threads of the bond smoldering did he know she lived.

 

“Don’t die, woman,” he growled under his breath, and contented himself to wait.

*~*

Trunks tried to keep his face expressionless, to bury the fear and curiosity deep in his heart. But the blast that had felled him robbed him of his equanimity, and the leering creature crouched over him watched for the tiniest change on his face. Trunks focused on sensory detail to distract himself from any mental probe. Warm blood tickling his rain-chilled face anchored him to the moment.

 

“Blue woman?” Trunks said at last, his voice matching Cold’s in its icy nonchalance, “my coloring isn’t that unique, really. Dozens of humanoid races have this,” a twitch of his bound wrists was meant to encompass his blue eyes and lavender hair. An instant’s doubt flickered in the King Cold’s red eyes. His mouth curved in an almost feminine bow.

 

“I don’t believe you, monkey. Now, I suggest you don’t lie to me,” crooned Cold. One hand flung out toward the tech spider on Sansai’s chest and Trunks saw a tiny device wrapped in his thick, purple fingers.

 

Trunks’ eyes found his mate’s and he watched in horror as the spider greedily set its mouth to her throat. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream, her body arching up, limbs thrashing in feeble futility. Kami, her beautiful black eyes were so painfully aware, staring at him with such exquisite agony. He felt the golden warmth of her ki dwindle, shrinking smaller and smaller even as he frantically pushed his own great strength into her.

 

Fear slithered across his skin like dirty ice and he struggled against the restraints, spitting curses at the monster looming over him.

Anger was ashes on his tongue, his strength ebbed from him like the ruby tears falling from Sansai’s wounds.

He was helpless.

He was alone and afraid—so terribly afraid!—as the one he loved most fell . . . fell towards the gossamer veil between her and the void. The cold, empty void . . .

 

“Stop!” he wept, his lips numb and his chest rattling as his body followed his mate toward death, “I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt her! Please . . .”

 

His pride, his strength, all was dust in the wind. All that mattered was that Sansai lived. Agonizing seconds ticked by, Trunks’ eyes locked with the bottomless, fiery red of King Cold’s. The Ice Clan broke their stare to flick his gaze between the two of them.

 

“Interesting,” he said, “quite literal, all those gallant, clichéd protestations.” He snickered. 

 

Trunks felt his heart beat erratically, thundering fast, then slowing . . . death by Cell’s hand was a quick, painful, abrupt wrenching. This was slow and cool and peaceful. He could just close his eyes and fly with Sansai to the cold, bright stars . . .

                                                                                    

No _! You fucking son of a bitch, you’re not going to die on me! Breathe, brat! Live!_ Live _, goddamn it!_

Trunks growled, pushing weakly against the bright, annoying presence in his head.

 

 _My love . . ._ Sansai’s words were slurred and weak, and the light began to die from her eyes, _we_ must _live. For our baby._

 

Trunks hissed in another breath. Clumsily, he stumbled into her mind and felt the tiny glow of ki curled under Sansai’s staggering heart. A child! God of gods, something of himself and Sansai joined forever! The thought heartened him and he touched something inside himself, a well of power seemingly beyond limit, terrible and wonderful at once.

 

In the same instant, Cold stayed his little tech abomination and the power slipped from his fingers, retreating into the hidden well inside him.

 

“Now, little monkey, are you ready to tell me the truth? It was your whore of a mother who killed Frieza, wasn’t it? Vegeta’s blue piece of ass? Wasn’t it?” Cold loomed over him, breathing rancid heat onto his face. His red eyes drilled into him, but Trunks found the gall to smirk at him. His power swelled up, golden and pure. He would live!

 

 _I will not fail you, Father,_ he thought.

 

“I am Trunks, son of King Vegeta the twenty-ninth and Bulma Briefs, genius of Earth. Tremble, King Cold, for me and mine will kill you as we did your son.” for emphasis, Trunks spat in King Cold’s face.

 

Several things happened at once.

 

King Cold roared in outrage, rearing back to strike him.

The shimmering ki shield faltered, then flickered out and Trunks heard explosions in the direction of the ship.

Cold paused, his fist held mid-blow, staring dumbly at his ship, now devoured in greedy orange flames. A gold bolt exploded from thin air, whizzing an inch past King Cold’s black horn. His narrow, serpentine face twisted in rage and his red eyes raked the area.

 

“My ship! What’s going on? Who is out there?” he demanded.

 

With the sudden release of pressure from his chest, Trunks struggled against his restraints, felt them give. Growling and grunting, he managed to wriggle loose the uppermost ties, struggling onto his knees. His ki bubbled up and he took in a breath to power up. His ki sense prickled and he ducked just as a blue blast sang over his head, the heat of it searing his face and the sound ringing in his ears. The blast caught Cold in the back, and he fell.

 

There was a silver slicing, and the restraints fell from his chest. The familiar hilt of his sword was thrust into his hand and Trunks cocked his head to smirk at Kakkarot, who stood behind him. He glowed in the gold of Super Saiyan and he smiled back, Goku’s goofy, friendly smile. Trunks cocked a brow, but Kakkarot leapt forward, aiding Zorn and Okurah with the footsoldiers pouring from the burning ship. 

Half a heartbeat later, the remnants of the tech spider laid at Trunks’ feet in a dozen pieces.

Without a thought or care to the battle bursting around him, he knelt beside his mate, who lay as still as death.

*~*

He channeled all his frustrations and anxieties into his fists, his mind as keen as the brat’s sword. His face was twisted into a ferocious mask of murderous rage, focused solely on the creature he fought. Seconds. A handful of seconds later and his son and his vassal would have been dead. He would draw the seconds into minutes, hours of torture to Cold, and by the time he was finished, the Ice Clan would beg for death. He would—

 

_Vegeta!_

 

His woman’s voice rattled his brain, breaking his focus into jagged fragments. But he could not stop Cold’s momentum as he flew back in the wake of Vegeta’s kick. His heart felt a moment’s fierce panic, with her shield; he hadn’t sensed her in Cold’s flight path. The Ice Clan only clipped her, thank the gods, but her shield broke, leaving her helpless. Stopping himself, Cold stared at the woman who just appeared out of thin air. The perplexity faded in a millisecond, replaced with rage.

 

 _“You!”_ he hissed, a needle thin blade of ki exploding from his black-taloned fingertip. A blur of movement and Zorn shoved Bulma out of the way, taking the blast through his shoulder. The brat appeared beside him, glowing in Super Saiyan 2 aura, hefting his sword.

 

“After you, Father,” he said, the gleam of bloodlust bright in his green eyes. Vegeta smirked, ascending to Super Saiyan 2. Together, they tore him to pieces, purple blood staining their hands.


	14. A Prince is Born

Sansai, Bulma found out, was most creative with her curse words. The broken forelegs of the tech spiders needed to be removed before Trunks’ feverishly produced Senzu could have any effect. And Sansai exercised her extensive, multi-cultural vocabulary of swear words at each hasty removal with no surgical instruments save Bulma’s fingers and no painkiller save Okurah’s small flask of strong, amber liquor. The men were occupied at the moment, Kakkarot, Zorn and Okurah gathered the corpses of Cold’s men to be burned while Trunks and Vegeta were gutting the smoking hull of Cold’s ship of anything useful.

 

On her way back to her ship, she had found the remnant of the Empire’s storage facilities on this barren rock of a planet and together, she and Sansai had limped inside to escape the activity and annoying drizzle. Outside, the oppressive darkness had lightened a bit, into a murky, bluish twilight that inhabitants of Lenore—had there been any—would call daytime. Beside them, a generator hummed, powering in the softer golden light of ki lamps. Sansai sat with her back against several dusty storage bins, and empty wrappers of freeze-dried food lay strewn across the bare stone floor. All of her ravenous Saiyans had stopped in for a quick snack after the battle. Save for a thick layer of dust coating everything, the cellar was warm, dry and surprisingly cozy.

 

Bulma knelt beside Sansai’s left leg, assessing the damage critically. The slender, tautly muscled limb was riddled with what looked like shining pegs thrust through the armored fabric of her black battlesuit. A pile of four such blood-stained appendages lay in a small container an inch from Bulma’s torn, denim-clad knee. The alloy was like nothing she had ever seen: bright, but lacking the same cold, inert weight of metal. It almost felt like some sort of dense bone, or hornlike material . . .

 

Bulma shook off such thoughts and grasped the nearest foreleg. She yanked, cursing as it slipped from her fingers mid-pull.

 

Sansai shouted a vicious string of Saiyago insults and Bulma giggled nervously, ears burning. One baleful black eye opened and Bulma was relieved to see a glint of reluctant humor. It had been close, Bulma knew, and had she not fired her rifle at Cold when she did, they would be building a pyre for her son and his mate instead of for Cold’s soldiers. Even now, her hands still shook with reaction and terror, the image of malevolent hatred in Cold’s eyes branded into her mind, and the red blast spiraling toward her . . .

Bulma shook herself and returned to her work, there were at least fifteen more of these things marring Sansai’s sleek flesh and she was losing blood.

 

“Brace yourself, honey,” Bulma muttered, taking a firmer grasp on the glinting cylinder and yanking straight up and out. The taut muscle under the black fabric rippled, and, by the seventh extraction, Sansai only had the energy to inhale sharply at each pull, eyes closed in a reluctant doze.

 

“Why is it,” Sansai rasped after a moment, flinching as Bulma worked her way up her arm, “that whenever the Ice Clan have some new technological horror to unleash on the Universe, it finds its way to me?” one tired black eye opened to gauge her reaction.

 

Bulma smirked into her daughter-in-law’s pale face, one side caked with mud. The dark smears gave the odd impression of war paint, making her look as her ancestors must have: keen intelligence, animal brutality, and that monstrous, fiery strength, all focused with single-minded intensity. Bulma repressed a shiver.

 

It escaped her most of the time, the true, ugly nature inborn in a Saiyan, these were warriors who could fight and fly as soon as they could walk, and where, not even a generation ago, children younger than Sansai were sent to purge entire planets of every living thing, all executed with the same flippant regard of exterminating a particularly disgusting insect. And these children would then eat the corpses of the ones they killed if nothing else was available.

 

The macabre musing passed, and it was Sansai again, the sweet, gallant girl that she loved so much. The other eye opened to join its fellow. 

 

“You’re a magnet for trouble, I guess,” Bulma said a little shakily.

 

Sansai heard her change in tone and manner, but only arched a brow. She chuckled dryly and the small knot gathered in Bulma’s stomach disappeared. They had changed. While a long way from a pacifist race, the Saiyans were no longer the clever beasts who served as Frieza’s favorite purgers.

 

“No more than you are, Bulma,” Sansai teased. Bulma laughed.

 

“Vegeta thinks so too.”

 

Sansai’s face fell at the mention of him.

 

“He’s not happy with me. I have failed my duty.”

 

Bulma had known Sansai long enough that any platitude would only insult her. Vegeta was in fact, very angry at the two of them; she could feel it seething through the bond despite her attempts to placate him. Bulma sighed and continued her work as gently as she could. Pale, blood-stained fingertips paused just above the elbow, and she shook her head. One spider foreleg was maybe an inch from Sansai’s brachial artery. Had that been so much as nicked, Sansai would have been a cold corpse by now. Another double-edged attribute of the Saiyans: their unnaturally quick healing time and explosion of power once they were. Weren’t loose cannons like Broly even more dangerous every time they were allowed to escape?

 

“How many of these things did you kill?” Bulma asked softly, trying to distract her from the pain that she was no doubt immersed in, and herself from dark thoughts. Sansai’s eyes closed as Bulma resumed her work, but her tail wound around Bulma’s wrist and squeezed, like the caress of a lovable, furry snake. Bulma inwardly berated herself for her uncharitable thoughts. Saiyans were not evil. The evil of their race had met its death when Bardock received his Gift.

 

“At least fifty. Cold had just knocked out Trunks. My brain was thinking seriously about joining him when they came. Cold had a . . . mechanism of some sort, to control them. It was terrible, high-pitched noise; rattling around in my head in undulating notes . . . they seemed to burst up from the ground. Have you ever seen an army of ants, Bulma? Strong and valiant as they are, a grasshopper can kill an ant in an instant. But get hundreds of ants together, they bring down the grasshopper and tear it into pieces.” Bulma’s gorge rose at the image painted. Her mouth tipped in ironic humor.

 

“I feel very sorry for the grasshopper,” she said dryly. Bulma bit her lip, fighting back the fear that rose in her belly. The fear of the unknown was the most torturous, she knew, and this . . . abomination that had brought Sansai to her knees was terrifying indeed.

 

“Well,” Bulma said, checking her carefully from head to toe, “no more that I can see. Go ahead and eat.”

 

Sansai obediently ate the bean and, restored, thanked Bulma with a kiss on the cheek, a very human gesture of affection. Some of Trunks’ habits were rubbing off. 

 

“Now, if you will excuse me, my lady, I believe King Vegeta would like to have a word with me and Trunks.”

*~*

Vegeta glared down his nose at them, standing like two cubs about to be thrashed. By all rights, he _should_ beat them within an inch of their lives for their carelessness. The anger he had bit back filled his limbs, overwhelming the shaking terror that had been his when he felt them both sink closer to the void . . . damn it, they had _welcomed_ it!

 

With brutal precision, he delivered a hard punch across Trunks’ face, opening the scabbed cut on his cheek. Red blood glimmered faintly on Vegeta’s gloved knuckles and he whirled, backhanding Sansai. They did not move, did not protest, but took their blows with a kind of morbid relief. The seething red torrent rising up from his belly abated and Vegeta relaxed minutely. While there was contrition in Trunks’ blue eyes, his erect posture, the prideful tilt of his head kindled an answering angle in Vegeta. No matter the circumstance of his rearing, this boy was every inch his son and Vegeta could not stifle the ferocious joy in that ownership. 

 

Vegeta remembered his anger and one white finger stabbed the air before Trunks’ face, and Vegeta saw him shrink, flinch away from the dark understanding and ruthless judgment.

 

“You, brat, were careless and stupid,” he enunciated each word carefully, the syllables so barbed with anger that he saw his squad flinch in sympathy out of the corner of his eye, clustered a discreet distance away.

 

“What would have happened had Cold overwhelmed you? He had your capsules, your pod. He could have used the code to enter Planet Vegeta’s airspace unmolested. Then he would have unleashed his little tech beasts on the whole of our people! My Empire teeters on the brink of civil war because I raised you to the rank of Prince, for your mother’s sake, for yours. And you, you spineless half-breed, you would _welcome_ death?!?”

 

Sansai began to protest and his woman nipped at him through the bond, a sharp, annoying speck of ki in his mind. Vegeta snarled, cutting them both off with a pulse of power.

 

“And you,” Vegeta whirled on Sansai, noting with horror the dozens of punctures made by the spiders, now healed by the woman’s magic beans. Her battlesuit looked like Swiss cheese.

 

 _Gods,_ a small part of his mind thought, _how much blood has this girl spilt in my service? How much of it is on my hands?_

 

“Ten years you have served me. You didn’t even set the shield on the pod! It would have taken you seconds! I expected such mistakes from the brat, he knows no better. But you . . . I am disappointed. I am disgusted.”

 

Vegeta watched her crumple under the word-blows, and a spasm of grief tore her face. He felt an instant’s guilt. She could take his haranguing, his anger, even the strikes of his hands, but one admission of disappointment had her nearly in tears. She bowed her head and he caught one silver drop fall from her face.

 

 

All of his anger ebbed from him, replaced with a sheepish guilt. Trunks said nothing, but reached out with his mind. The boy was the deep stillness and quiet of an ancient forest, full of secrets, violence, tranquility and enduring strength. Twisted in the union of the bond was Sansai, fierce, bright song: the mournful quiet of a ballad, the heated cajoling of a battle cry, the steely determination of a chant.

 

_Father, we were arrogant in our power, and careless. In an instant’s despair, we welcomed the death. Surely you, who have faced death many times, would understand that impetus._

 

Peering deeper, Vegeta saw the depths of the boy’s anger, swirling into a tempest rivaling his own.

 

_But do not—do not!—break my mate’s heart. Her love for you is as strong and pure and precious as a jewel. I won’t let y—_

“Brat, shut up,” Vegeta said aloud, cocking his head, his body wound taut in foreboding.

 

 ** _VEGETA!!!_** his woman’s telepathic shout nearly scrambled his brains, ringing with pain and fear. Terror clutched his heart and he exploded into the air. Trunks, Sansai and his squad fell in line behind him.

 

“Sire . . .” Okurah yelled, “what’s going on?”

 

“My son is coming! He’s tearing her apart!” Vegeta bellowed, blazing through both levels of Super Saiyan as he flew, leaving them all behind in his desperation. He’d be damned if the gods would take her from him now!

*~*

A trial such as giving birth didn’t bear remembrance. For if Bulma actually remembered the tearing agony radiating in undulating waves from her lower belly, she would never have let Vegeta near her. With Trunks, things had been different. She had had the comfort of her own home, the sterile reassurance of reliable medical care and painkillers, and Momma’s hand to cling to. Now . . . now she writhed on the dirty floor of a bunker light-years from any passable medical facility with an increasingly panicked mate crouched over her. His face, painted in the pale colors of his power, creased with terror and dreadful love, swam before her. His voice was a hoarse roar, razor sharp with despair.

 

“Sansai! Ready the pod!” he bellowed. 

 

Another contraction smote her and small, brightly colored stars burst before her eyes, the swelling tide of heat burgeoning within her soaked her clothes with sweat.

 

“No time . . .” came the raspy reply of Sansai’s voice, “Out of Senzu . . .” one warm, callused hand closed over hers.

 

“Hold on to me, Bulma,” Sansai whispered. A blur of lavender and the musky, masculine scent of her son.

 

“Mom!” Trunks cried, grabbing her other hand.

 

She screamed, high and shrill at the terrible knowledge of what lay before her. The babble of male voices growled around her, like a pack of dogs. Bulma whimpered. Vegeta’s voice banished them with a sharp word. A contraction tore through her, tearing, slippery heat gushing between her thighs. She felt Vegeta’s familiar hard chest behind her and arched against him, taking solace in his solid presence at the onslaught of each contraction.

 

Breath hissed past her lips, and she was beyond words, beyond any thought but the pain, but for the tiny life she struggled to birth.

 

The white hot spasms of pain grew closer together, until Bulma could no longer distinguish between crests and drowned in pain . . . and pain . . . and pain . . . through the pain came the urge to push and she bore down with her flagging strength, muscle and blood and will striving toward hope in a crescendo as old as time . . . a slick release, a high thin cry. 

She sagged back, sinking into that blessed place of coolness she had touched during Trunks’ birth, the cool, gentle dark . . .

 

_No! No, woman! Come back!_

 

Light and energy seared through her, burning away apathy. She opened her eyes to see Vegeta’s face, his emerald eyes shone bright with emotion, his high, sharp cheekbones damp, but with sweat or tears she didn’t know.

 

“Bulma . . .” he whispered, shaky with relief. Bulma tried to smile.

 

“. . . Ba—baby?” she croaked, her throat raw. His mouth stretched into a rare smile. He waved a hand and Bulma looked up blearily to see Sansai holding a squirming bundle, wrapped in Vegeta’s crimson cape. With a soft cry, Bulma accepted her secondborn son, the wonderful, instantaneous rush of love melting her heart. The newborn prince ceased his mewling and eyed her quizzically, one chubby hand coming up to touch her face. A small brown tail twisted around her wrist.

 

As she had with Trunks, she marveled at the differences between Saiyan and human babies. Visual acuity, hand-eye coordination, fine muscle control, all within minutes of birth . . .

His eyes! His eyes were hers, a bright, startling blue set in the ruddy tones of birth, his face soft and round. His hair was Vegeta’s, a defiant upward spike, soft and black. Bangs swept charmingly over his forehead.

 

“Geta,” Bulma whispered, kissing his forehead.

*~*

 “A thousand pardons, sir, but King Vegeta has returned. Prince Trunks defeated King Cold. He carries his head. And Lady . . . ah, the Earth woman gave birth while one Lenore. To a son. They have named him for his father,” the servant bowed deeply and Tarah snarled, dashing his wine at the slender Drani.

 

“Get out!” Tarah bellowed, kicking the man. Whimpering, the man backed out of the room, thorny with Elite Saiyans and, of course, their guest of honor. The man’s elfin features tightened in fear and he gave their guest a wide berth, careful to reactivate the ki dampers encasing the room. As he left, Tarah smirked sardonically.

 

“Apologies, friends. This news is to be expected, but . . .” he paused for dramatic effect, then continued, “but this . . . this travesty of justice, this mockery of our proud ancestry _must_ be stopped!”

Around the room there were murmurs of approval, the shine of hate bright in their eyes.

 

“ _Prince_ Trunks, _Prince_ Vegeta, will we let these half-breeds rule us? Vegeta, our king, the Legendary of old, a warrior of warriors, has been seduced by this human harlot! She has bewitched him, and who could blame him? A woman of her beauty and spirit would tempt any man to his doom. And our doom she shall be when the king enters the Hall of Heroes and we are left with a purple-haired half-breed to rule the Empire built by our struggle and mortared with our blood!” Tarah shouted, amid gales of agreement. An evil smile tilted his mouth. _Yes, we will kill the bitch and her whelps, then send that traitorous king of ours to join them! Then_ my _son will take the black throne._

_._

None of this showed on his face, only a stricken expression of martyrdom. Every one of them ate it up, the same objections bitter on their tongues. All of them respected King Vegeta, feared his power, but in their eyes, it was a service to him to remove the woman’s poisoning presence. Yes, they would serve him well. Tarah lifted his eyes to the figure standing against the wall.

 

“And we have our weapon. Your White Fist will do their work, yes?”

 

The Ice Clan’s thick white tail swayed in a serpentine arc, a smile playing on its black lips.

 

“Yes,” it drawled with the rasping lisp characteristic of its race, “Never fear, monkey, I shall do my part to take away the Earthling female’s protectors. It will take some time, but I have the perfect incentive.”

 

“Good. Soon, my brothers, soon we will see this bitch’s blood stain the ground,” Tarah said, smiling into the darkness.

*~*

Trunks watched the fiery orb of the sun sink slowly into the sea, admiring the explosion of colors and the rippling path of golden light on the surface that seemed to light the path to Heaven. The heat was pleasant on his face, as was the salty tang of the sea, and its sounds crashing on the shore below.

 

As a gift for Mom, Father had set the hordes of servants and Saiyan craftsmen to build a magnificent summer home on this island in the southern seas. They had functionally completed the feat in less than three months, an amazing achievement even by Saiyan standards. Some of the lesser used rooms were still under construction, to Father’s scrupulous taste. True to style, it was to be an extravagantly large work of art, every carving and room a secret labor of love.

 

Trunks ran a hand over the smooth stone of the window frame, warmed by the sun, a stately black marbled with a startlingly vivid red. Bloodstone, Sansai had called it. He smirked. His mate had been right about the Saiyan penchant for storytelling via pictograms. In the main hall there was a carving of the two of them, glazed in Super Saiyan gold, defeating monsters twice their size, muscles corded and faces sharp in startling detail: The Defeat of the Androids. Slender teenagers in jeans wouldn’t have been suitably terrifying, he supposed.

 

Sounds of splashing and laughter reached his ears and from his high vantage point saw his parents and little brother on the beach below. Father, clad in only a pair of loose gi pants, lay languid in the sand, looking like a large, deadly feline sunning himself, watching the pair in the shallows. Mom and little Geta were playing in the waves, Geta giggling in delight at the movement and coolness.

 

As fiercely as Trunks had resolved not to love his little brother, all it had taken to shatter that oath to pieces was for Mom to put him in his arms and the boy to look up at with trusting blue eyes, his tail curled innocently around his wrist. He may as well have been holding his own son, with the stark lines of the royal line evident even under the soft, childish lines of his newborn visage. Sansai had watched him knowingly, her hand splayed on her belly.

 

He watched Mom play with Geta, watched his father look on, with a strange, wistful contentment. Danger still lurked out in the star-splattered sky, in the form of Cooler, Broly, and the faceless, frightening engineer of the tech spiders, who Sansai had christened the _Sorva_ , Saiyago for spider. But for now, he supposed, there was time to rest.

 

He turned at the nearly imperceptible pad of his mate’s step on the lush carpet. His throat tightened at the sight of her in a filmy white nightgown, obviously a wedding present from Mom. As far as he knew, Saiyan clothiers didn’t have French tags. His eyes roved over her, subterranean pulses of desire ricocheting through every nerve. The ivory gown was a startling contrast to the olive tones of her smooth skin and the ebony and chocolate of her hair and tail.

 

“Gods Sansai, you look beautiful,” he whispered. She blushed a charming rosy hue in pleasure. She smirked, joining him at the window. She kissed him lightly in greeting, almost casual. Trunks smothered a growl. Did she feel how hard he was when they embraced? If she wasn’t careful, she would end up on her back . . . She looked down, a faint smile touching her lips. She chuckled, a sensual purr that sent shivers down his spine.

 

“A year ago, if someone told me that I would be standing in a palace watching King Vegeta doze on a beach while his mate played in the waves with her son, I would have punched them in the face. Amazing how the Universe orders itself, isn’t it?”

 

The sun seemed to sink into her skin, burnishing it to a golden sheen, bringing out blue highlights in her black hair. In this light he could see the fierce joy of her heritage, the stern visage of some warrior goddess, unmoved by softer emotions, of any passion beyond the fervor of battle. Tingling awareness wormed its way through him, a delicious torture he was used to.

 

“Yeah. When I was alone on Earth . . . I tried not to think beyond the present moment. No past, no future, only the comfort of the present. But now . . . now, I worry for the future almost constantly. For me and you, little Geta down there, happy and innocent. What will happen when he’s old enough to realize that some of his own people despise him for his mother’s eyes? What about our child?”

 

A flash of fear darted across her face as she flinched, flesh and blood, vulnerable woman instead of gelid goddess. He turned to her fully, tilting her chin up so she met his gaze.

 

“I know you, Beloved. I touched your fear, on Lenore . . .” he trailed off, struck by the terrifying feeling of watching her die. Gooseflesh stippled his skin, the fur of his tail bristled. So close to losing her. He saw the reflection of his musing in her eyes, the ferocity verging on violence of love in her heart. In another brutal flash of memory, he saw Zorn taking the blast for his mother. The cub was fine, last Trunks had heard and he was grateful. The whole crew had deigned to stay in the Capital and leave the king to his rest.

 

“You were afraid what would become of us, of our people. I understand. I feel it too. I’ll tell you what Father told me, if cleaning up the language a bit,” she snickered and Trunks gave her an exaggerated scowl, coughing to mimic the rusty baritone of his father’s voice, “‘Yes, brat, there are those who will stand against us, who will fight us every step of the way. But there is good news: one, we are strong enough to protect what is ours. And,’” Trunks’ mouth curled as Father’s had, “‘our enemies are of my father’s generation. If there is any justice in the Universe, their protests will die with them.’”

 

He slid his arms around her, his tail wrapping snugly around her thigh and delighted in the slight relaxation of her muscles, of the lethal vigilance that served her well as a soldier. With him, she felt safe enough to let down her guard.

 

“We’ll be all right. We’ll figure something out.”

 

Silence fell between them and they watched as the sun sank below the rim of the world, the vibrant purple sky softening to the blue-black of night, pierced by the shine of stars. Father rose from his resting posture, long, tan hands and nimble tail brushing sand from his pants fastidiously. The hoarse rasp of his voice rumbled above the sound of waves, a summoning expecting immediate obedience.

 

Mom rose with Geta and approached him with the same sauntering grace Sansai had Trunks. And Father was no more immune to it than Trunks was. Thinking himself safe from prying eyes, Father looped an arm around Mom, his hand splayed deliberately on her buttocks, and kissed her with a thoroughness a few inches shy of lewd.

 

Releasing her, he took hold of Geta and held him at arm’s length, eyeing him critically. Carelessly, but with barely suppressed affection, he threw his infant son high into the air. Geta squealed and squirmed in joy, tumbling end over end through the warm, salty air. As he winged toward the ground like a spiky haired missile, Father caught him neatly, smirking. 

 

As soon as her son was safely earth-bound, Bulma snatched him away from her mate, shouting. Trunks watched in fascination at the arrogant tilt of Father’s chin, the flippant flick of finger that dismissed Mom’s concern as human and foolish. He could just imagine the gruff tone and the gloating amusement hidden in his dark eyes.

 

_‘He’s Saiyan, woman, not a porcelain doll! Brats his age can track and hunt beasts! Besides, Prince Vegeta seemed to like it just fine.’_

 

Mom retorted with something witty and sharp-edged, but from her mildly sheepish expression, she had forgiven her mate, considering that Geta was indeed whole. Father threw back his head, his laughter floating up to them like merry thunder. His tail curled around his mate’s waist and together they walked back toward the palace.

 

“I’ve never seen him so . . . so . . .” Sansai began, eyeing her erstwhile master perplexedly.

 

“Happy?” Trunks supplied, kissing the bonding mark on her neck.

 

“Yes,” she replied softly, “happy.”

 

Trunks had never seen his mother smile or laugh so much, or flirt and kiss and act generally like a lovestruck teenager. Yes, they were blindly, deliriously happy. Who could blame them?

 

“Are . . . are you also happy, Trunks?” Sansai asked in the same soft, half shy tone. She turned in his embrace with the serious visage of a soldier girded for battle. He was about to laugh and tease her, but she stood on tiptoe and kissed the length of the scar Cold had left on his cheek. The cut was a minor injury and he liked the rakish look of it, slashing in a thin, bold line down his right cheek. His heart softened.

 

 _Oh Beloved, of course I am. I have a family, friends, and I have you and our baby. I have more than I ever dared dream of having. And if I have to bear a little scratch for such joy, I count myself lucky._ He said through the bond, opening the secret doors of his heart wide. She kissed him, as slow and sweet as the sunset outside.

 

He pulled back, eyeing her with the utmost seriousness. He combed his fingers through her hair, cupping her skull between his hands.

 

“Twice in a handful of weeks I have watched you be beaten within an inch of your life. It nearly destroyed me. I want to fill your life with love and color and peace.”

 

Though her eyes shone with tears, a rueful smirk, rife with self-mockery touched her full mouth.

 

“Believe me, neither of us enjoyed it. If you could fathom it, there was a time when I was a respected warrior, slayer of one of the Ginyus. There was a time when I could actually _win_ a fight,” she said dryly. Trunks snickered.

 

“I have no trouble believing that, Beloved. There is time to rest now. Before . . . before whatever it is happens.”

 

Trunks saw the shadow pass over her face, saw the truth of his premonition echo in her heart. She felt it too. There would be peace, but not for long.       

 

“I love you,” she said aloud, “as I have never loved another. If I have you, then nothing else matters.”

 

Trunks’ hands wandered down, cupping her buttocks and pressing her to his hardening manhood.

 

“You have me,” he rasped, “now and always.”

*~*

Kakkarot rapped the door in two sharp, clean knocks. He waited nervously, roughly tugging the hem of his shirt. The fabric ripped with a muted hiss of protest and he glared at the deep blue cloth. He cursed and began stuffing the ragged hem into black gi pants when she answered the door. Kakkarot froze, then giggled nervously.

 

“Hi Chi-Chi. Uh . . . how are you?” he stuttered, cursing his ineptitude. A small smile tilted her soft lips.

 

“Hello Goku. I’m okay. Is there . . . is there something you needed?”

 

Kakkarot let out a breath of relief. She seemed as unsure as he was.

 

“No,” he said, then reconsidered, “well yes. I was needing—I was wondering if . . . if you would want to, I don’t know, maybe . . . maybe see some of Planet Vegeta? Since you haven’t left the palace yet, I thought I’d show you. It’s very beautiful, parts of it, anyway. I think you’d like it.”

 

A smile transformed her face, banishing the dark sadness that lingered in her black eyes. She swept her fingers lightly over her hair, tied in a messy bun. Kakkarot followed her gaze and remembered how it felt to push his fingers through her hair when he kissed her. Innocent as he had been then, her hair enchanted him and he loved touching it as they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

 

“I’d like that,” she replied, walking with him. Kakkarot looped an arm around her slender waist and took off at a slow clip. Her soft cry of joy and her hands wound tightly around him made him want to dance.

 

There was something about her that soothed him, maybe the memory of their peaceful life, maybe the thought of the son they had made together. He dreamt of the boy often: his slow, serious smile, the sharp intelligence in his eyes, and the boyish exuberance of his smart swagger. The dreams were bittersweet, for when he woke, he wept for the loss of his son, lamenting never knowing the man he’d become, feeling rabid jealousy every time he saw Vegeta stare at Trunks with such pride.

 

The tension slowly ebbed from him as he flew. It was the perfect day for flying. Hot, dry wind blew in lightly from the desert, and the sun was high and golden, benevolent and gentle today. The sky shimmered like purple silk, without even the barest whisper of cloud.

 

They flew briefly over the Capital, then ranged wider over the deserts and mountains and forests. He landed in an oasis, or on a rocky ledge, giving her scents and textures to match the vistas. Conversation started in hesitant drips and trickles, with the wind whistling in their ears as he flew. Then, she would talk of a shared memory, one of the cookouts at Kame House, surrounded by friends, or even one of their escapades as children. He could hear the admiration and even affection in her words as she spoke so glowingly of his heroics, her pale hands gesturing. She shaped her thoughts in the air and handed them to him, malleable and half-formed. He cradled them carefully, trying to marry the man she knew and the man he was together.

He remembered loving her.

And he couldn’t resist the resurgence of those feelings anymore than Vegeta could.

 

Hours could have passed and escaped his notice. The sun marched across the sky, reaching it zenith, then beginning its descent.  His belly, however, was not as content as his heart. When his stomach gave an embarrassingly loud growl, Chi-Chi laughed, the high, happy sound of woman in the tender spring of her life.

 

“Oh Goku, you and your stomach! I have food in my room; would you like to eat with me?”

 

“Yeah!” he agreed, perhaps more exuberantly than he should have.

 

 

 

 

As he ate, he carefully ordered the words he was to say, reciting them to himself in an even cadence between bites. Gods, her food was manna from Heaven!

 

When at last he was replete, he knelt on the carpet before her, taking her white hands between his.

 

“Chi-Chi, I--I never told you I loved you. Not once. I took it for granted, I took _you_ for granted. A hero I may have been in many eyes, but I was a careless husband and an absent father.” He found he couldn’t bear the depths of her eyes, and bowed his head over their joined hands, as pious as a pilgrim.

 

“I’m sorry for that, Chi-Chi. I have no right to ask, but,” he mustered his courage, taking solace in the soft exhalations stirring his hair, “but could you love me for the sake of the man you knew? I can make you happy, I know I can! If you--”

 

“Goku,” she choked, and he looked up. His heart tightened in his chest at the sight of tears streaming down her cheeks, white teeth bared in a smile. So beautiful . . .

 

“I love you already, you idiot! I always have.”

 

Then her lips were crushed to his and Kakkarot forgot all the gallant words he had memorized. Now there was only the sweet language of touch, clothes tossed aside in haste. Desire’s burning hue invaded his senses, and he buried his fingers in the sleek, silky tumble of her hair, slanting his mouth across hers. Their tongues tangled in a warm joust of invitation and Kakkarot fell forward atop her on the wide bed of her room.

 

A bar of late sunlight darted through the window, blinding him in golden radiance. Her hands, warm and soft, were all over him, smoothing over his bare chest, lingering over unfamiliar crescents of scars. Kakkarot grazed his lips gently over her face, her throat, cupping her hardworking hands to his lips. He saw the gleam of surprised pleasure in her eyes, the husky rasp of excitement in the quiet sounds she made. Yes, a man made love to her now, he thought. Before he had had the body of a man while his mind remained in the sweet innocence of childhood.

No longer.

He would wring every ounce of pleasure he could from this, even as his body screamed for release.

 

Frowning in concentration, Kakkarot carefully peeled away the remaining clothes separating them, murmuring husky endearments in Saiyago. A small smile tugged at his lips, remembering Bulma’s wish from the Kais _._

_Anyone who is or will be mated to a Saiyan . . ._

Before the night was over, she would be his as Bulma was Vegeta’s: bound in mind and soul and body.

 

Even before the change she would have been beautiful: smooth, pale limbs covered in that beautiful satiny white skin that all but glowed in the dusky, orangey light of Planet Vegeta’s sunset. Now, she stole his breath, a solid punch of desire winding him. Shaking hands, brutish and ugly compared to the slender grace of her, molded to the planes and dips of her body, relearning her secrets. He followed his hands with his mouth, worshipping every inch of her, loving the taste of her sweat. 

 

“I love you, Chi-Chi. Always. Gods, I love you so much!” Kakkarot vowed, panting in the sweet hollow between her pert breasts. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness, keen with a startling mixture of hunger and tenderness. Gently, she pulled him down to her, kissing him fiercely.

 

“Goku,” she whispered, then nipped his lip, “Goku . . . please.”

 

Kakkarot set his lips to hers; breathing in the breath she exhaled as he entered her. His back arched and he held himself rigidly, fearing he would spill his seed upon entering her like an untried boy. Untried he was, but not a boy. Not anymore. Exquisite pleasure sluiced over him, his body throbbing at the feel of secret clasping and embracing.

 

Reduced to single word messages, his brain registered heat, wet, and sweet, squeezing tension. He looked down at her with unutterable tenderness, watching the pleasure blur her eyes as he began to thrust, slow and building. By the sixth stroke, Chi-Chi arched up, clenching spasmodically around him, a low moan rippling from her throat. The sensation broke whatever control he had and Kakkarot buried himself inside her again and again and again, reaching her womb with each thrust. The world contracted to one pulsing point and Kakkarot flung back his head with a cry, his seed spurting inside her. Riding out the last spasms of it, Kakkarot tilted her head to one side and sank his canines into her throbbing flesh.

 

Bright and hot, fierce and strong, happy and sad. Kakkarot drowned in the light and shade of her, reliving his life on Earth through her eyes. Gods, not even a Kai was worshipped as she had worshipped him. A child’s promise taken as sacred word, she had claimed him as hers after a fierce battle, like a Saiyan woman. They had been happy in their little house on Mount Pao. Like a lioness, she defended Gohan’s right to a normal life, even as his Saiyan blood urged him on a different path.

 

A deadly virus robbed her of the love of her life, a metal monster that of her son. She remained, helpless to avert either catastrophe. Words were cheap and hollow things for what she had felt when her only son was lowered into the ground. Her heart longed to jump into the grave with him, to simply give up and join her sweet, bright boy in Otherworld. Grief drove her to the brink of insanity, but one small, stubborn spark remained, smoldering defiantly. Gero and his androids would not defeat her! She was the daughter of Ox-King, a princess in her own right!

 

Then Bulma disappeared and Chi-Chi sank into a gray apathy, unmoved by the pleas of the only friends left alive. When Bulma returned, she brought hope with her. Alive! He was alive! Not even Sansai’s existence, and her love’s tie to her was enough to dampen it.

It was that thought alone that urged her across time, abandoning forever the lonely graves on the mountainside . . .

 

Kakkarot returned to himself, his face damp with tears. He felt the deep question in her heart, and the surprising pangs of arousal at the bite. Kakkarot laughed, the sweet, thin sound of a boy.

 

“Mark me, my love, and we will be One.”

*~*

“Their brats will be powerful,” Vegeta grunted, thinking of Trunks and Sansai. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his woman’s lips curve in tolerant amusement.

 

“Yes, they will,” she agreed, untying the straps of her dress. The blue cloth fell to her waist, baring her swollen breasts. Moonlight gilded her creamy skin, her nipples puckered in the cool breeze and Vegeta felt a stab of hunger. The little brat, freshly bathed and diapered, squirmed in the solid heat and strength of his arms. Little Vegeta made a fussy sound, reaching his chubby hands to his mother, eager for nourishment. Vegeta smirked at his namesake.

 

 _You and me both, little prince,_ he growled mentally, amused. The brat’s consciousness was strangely malleable, so Vegeta took care to speak gently. There was intelligence there, as keen and bright as Trunks’ sword. With a gasp, Vegeta saw himself through the brat’s eyes: hard, rough-hands, deep, chest-rattle voice, warm-dark eyes. He was powerful, protective, wholly beautiful and wholly loved. Shaken, Vegeta gently extracted himself from the boy’s mind, handing the wriggling bundle to his mother.

 

Vegeta lifted his eyes to hers and smirked again.

 

“She’s carrying twins. It won’t be long before she realizes it.”

 

Bulma’s thin, blue brows arched.

 

“Twins?”

 

“Yes. Her mother was a twin, so it isn’t that unusual. Trunks is in for a surprise.” Vegeta grinned evilly, imagining the expression on the boy’s face when he realized the truth.

 

“I should say so,” Bulma replied absently, stroking little Vegeta’s crown of black hair as he suckled, “what became of the twin?”

 

Vegeta frowned.

 

“Gaia died along with Negi and Aspar during the Formation. Of that line, Sansai is the only heir that remains.”

 

“And Broly,” Bulma put in softly.

 

“Yes,” Vegeta agreed darkly, “Broly.”

 

He made a mental note to punch Kakkarot in the face for letting the deranged traitor escape.

 

Bulma laughed, like a soft sigh of a summer breeze at the mental image. Vegeta felt his lips twitch in an answering smile and the moment stretched on in warm silence, broken only by the brat’s little grunts and murmurs as he suckled. Bulma broke the suction of his mouth with a small pop and switched breasts. A pearl of milk dribbled from the abandoned breast and Vegeta stifled the urge to lap it up. He would wait until the brat finished his meal. 

 

“Geta won’t be lacking playmates, that’s for sure. Raditz and Seripa’s son is due out of the incubator soon.”

 

“Turles,” Vegeta said absently, eyes roving over the sleek shapes of her, “it’s an old name in Bardock’s family. That’s what they’re naming the boy.” 

 

“And now Sansai’s having twins!” Bulma exclaimed, a gleam of baby-greed in her eyes. She adored children, and the prospect of a grandbaby was a welcome one, even if she looked as young as the parents. Vegeta wouldn’t admit it, but he liked the idea too.    

 

Their eyes met in quiet contemplation. Soon. A handful of years of peace, the calm before the storm, the deep breath before the plunge. The Kai’s words echoed in the hidden chambers of his heart like the knell of a death toll.

 

_Dark forces gather against you. Remember, in the darkest hour, two will be one and the sun will light the way. Heed my words, King Vegeta, and you will live to see your son grow tall._

 

He and his woman had puzzled for hours over the riddle and could discern nothing from it.

For now, he would take the peace offered with a glad heart. There was time enough for rest and training. The next leap in power lurked tantalizingly before him. And he would find it for the sake of all he loved.

**Author's Note:**

> So, that's the end of part two of the Sands of Time Trilogy. Part 3 - Bound by Blood, is already posted.


End file.
